Reality Check
by nathan-p
Summary: ** START WITH CHAPTER 82 ** One-night stands are supposed to be a one-night thing. They're not supposed to show up fifteen years later, claiming they're pregnant with your child. And you're not supposed to fall in love with them. Jeb/ter Borcht, Reilly/OC, Jeb/Reilly UST. ** START WITH CHAPTER 82 **
1. Good News, Bad Memories

Chapter One: Good News, Bad Memories

Hearing the phone ring was a surprise -- and not one of the surprises you can expect. It was, after all, a rather obscene time of night.

Nevertheless, Jeb picked up the phone... and on the other end, heard the unmistakable tones of Roland ter Borcht, heavily inflected with German.

"Hello? Is this Jeb Batchelder?" _Hallo? Iss dis Jeb Betchelder?_

Jeb sighed. "How did you get this number?"

Ter Borcht snickered. "I have my ways."

Jeb cradled the phone between his shoulder and the side of his head, and went right back to typing up the progress report he'd been working on. "Never mind how you got it -- why are you calling?"

"I've finally done it," ter Borcht said gleefully.

Jeb bit his lip, struggling to read the scribbly handwriting on the form in front of him. "Done what?" he said absently.

"The artificial-womb project is one step closer to completion," ter Borcht said smugly.

Jeb's eyes widened. "Wow. What's the latest?"

"We've gotten an embryo to implant in an artificial womb," ter Borcht said.

"And the drawback is?"

"The artificial womb has to be -- we need a _host_," ter Borcht said.

"That's _great_!" Jeb said. "I'm guessing you have one?"

"Of course."

"Well, congratulate her for me," Jeb said, beginning to type again.

"It's not a her."

"What?" Jeb set the report down, listening intently for ter Borcht's reply.

"I'm pregnant. And it's yours."

"_What_?" Jeb sputtered.

On the other end, ter Borcht made an attempt to explain, but got nowhere before dissolving into (rather immature) snickering.

Jeb glanced around quickly. No one else was in the lab -- and no one _should _have been, given how late it was. Good.

"Explain yourself," he hissed into the phone. "Don't try to be clever, either -- it's far too early in the morning for cleverness."

"Is it?" ter Borcht asked, a laugh still ghosting through his voice.

"Yes," Jeb said.

"Oh. Sorry about that." Ter Borcht thought for a moment. "Well, we couldn't find a willing host, and it's quite delicate, so..."

"You decided to go the mad-scientist route and use yourself," Jeb said, leaning heavily on the desk. "Christ, Roland -- you've hardly been on medication for three years and you're already reverting to your old habits. I can't believe it."

"I'm practically in perfect health, Dr. Batchelder," ter Borcht said coldly. "I was the only logical choice. _It wasn't a selfish decision!_"

"Fine. Fine. OK," Jeb said.

"You sound like my psychiatrist," ter Borcht said.

"Definitely not what my degree's in," Jeb said, returning, cautiously, to typing, again with the phone cradled between his shoulder and the side of his head.

"Right." Ter Borcht laughed.

"OK. So another question -- I'm not even going to _ask_ how you got it to work right now -- why did you say 'and it's yours'? It couldn't be -- it's patently impossible!"

"It was funny," ter Borcht said, German accent coming out strong, rendering the sentence _It vos funny._

Jeb was prepared to politely say his goodbyes and hang up, but ter Borcht continued.

"And it was _true_."

Jeb closed his eyes and focused on remaining calm for a second before speaking.

To his credit, he _didn't_ scream at ter Borcht -- just talked. A little loudly, sure, but it was an improvement over the screaming.

"OK. Explain _how_ that could even be possible."

"Remember that Christmas party?" ter Borcht said.

Jeb sighed. "Yes, I do." No matter how many times (before he'd broken up with Valencia, whom he'd never told about it) he'd tried to convince himself it had never happened... it had.

"Well..." ter Borcht seemed convinced that that would make everything crystal clear, and consequently he trailed off without finishing the statement.

Jeb glanced furtively around the lab again. He knew there were security cameras, but he was pretty sure their limited audio capabilities weren't good enough to pick up on low whispers. And he wanted to check to make sure _no one_ heard this.

Wouldn't that be an awkward way to get outed.

"Look, you idiot," he said in his lowest, clearest whisper. "I _remember_ what happened that night -- not all that clearly, we were drunk, but I _remember_. And I _know_ I wore a condom."

Ter Borcht laughed. "The first time, yes."

"And another thing! I was with you the entire night," Jeb continued heatedly. "There's just no _fucking_ way."

"Just trust me," ter Borcht said. "It's yours." He paused. Laughed. "You should really trust me on that. I made the embryo, after all."

Jeb had a thousand questions he wanted to ask -- quite a few of which were merely technical questions on _how_ exactly ter Borcht had managed it all -- but he held his tongue on them.

"OK. Fine. I -- I trust you on that, OK?"

"All right," ter Borcht said, sounding faintly disappointed.

Jeb sighed. "Is that all?"

"That's all," ter Borcht said, now positively _morose_.

Jeb suppressed any temptation to apologize. Ter Borcht had called _Jeb,_ after all -- not the other way around.

"Good _night_," Jeb said, and hung up.

* * *

Of course, word got around (apparently, ter Borcht had called someone else at the School with the news -- and been much more serious with them), and by the time Jeb remembered to take a lunch break the following day, the School was fairly _buzzing_ with questions for him.

At least Reilly (the official new / fall guy, even though he _had_ been an actual staff member for a year at that point) was fairly polite about interrogating Jeb.

He even knocked on the door.

"Dr. Batchelder?"

The thick doors at the School tended to block all but the loudest noises, but Jeb had long learned to recognize when someone was asking after him.

"Come in!" he called. "It's unlocked."

The door opened, and Reilly peered inside.

"I'm not disturbing you or anything?"

Jeb glanced down at the papers in front of him, which resolved into... his preliminary notes for the Angel Experiment. Huh. _That_ was interesting.

"Oh, no." He smiled, to put Reilly at ease -- he was a nervous one, that was for sure. "What do you need to know? If it's Subject Eleven -- I know you were working with her -- I've got her file right here..."

Jeb started to flick rapidly through the papers in front of him, figuring that her file was _probably_ somewhere in there...

He'd actually located the file when Reilly coughed politely.

"Dr. Batchelder, it's... not about Subject Eleven."

"Oh? What is it, then?" Jeb summoned up patience. Not that he didn't like Reilly -- he was a good kid, definitely talented -- but he was a bit of a trial to deal with at times.

Especially given that Jeb hadn't slept since... Thursday? (Whoops.)

"It's, um..." Reilly glanced at the floor for a moment. "Dr. Prescott got a call from Dr. ter Borcht last night. He said he'd figured out the artificial-womb project." Reilly was grinning. "Did he -- tell you any more about that?"

"Nah," Jeb said. "I got the same phone call, but Dr. ter Borcht didn't tell me anything different from what he seems to have told Dr. Prescott."

"Oh." Reilly seemed disappointed.

"That's all?" Jeb said.

"Yeah. I wasn't sure I had the right lab for a second," he added.

"Why's that?" Jeb said, focusing his attention on staying relatively coherent and not springing off into sleep-deprived brilliance, unfortunately channeled through the mouth. It probably wouldn't go off well with Reilly.

"It's clean," Reilly said.

"Oh. Yeah." Jeb forced a laugh. "I thought it could use a good cleaning. Get rid of some of the old stains. You know?"

"Yeah," Reilly said, and what he _didn't_ say, that Jeb could practically still hear because he was visibly thinking it: _That's not like you. What happened while you were gone?_

Jeb wanted to explain to Reilly what he hadn't yet mentioned to anyone else -- that he'd taken those two years off _for an experiment. _They hadn't been a spur-of-the-moment, adjusting-to-the-new-medication decision.

(He reminded himself a little of ter Borcht the previous night, thinking like that. "_It wasn't a selfish decision!" _-- and ter Borcht's voice had been, for a second, full of the unmedicated, fiery passion Jeb remembered from before his diagnosis.)

And that, actually, he'd cleaned the lab for reasons he couldn't remember, and wouldn't have been able to justify -- missing Max, feeling like a traitor, a whole mess of confused, confusing _emotions_ that he just wanted to _go away_ -- and so he'd gotten cleaning supplies from the janitor's closet and lost himself in the mindless work of cleaning.

"You OK?" Reilly said, and Jeb realized he'd been silent for almost a full minute.

"Yeah," he muttered. "I should be sleeping more."

"You look like you need it," Reilly observed, and turned to go. "Thanks anyway."

"No problem," Jeb said, and then, fatefully, added, "What _did_ Dr. ter Borcht tell Dr. Prescott, exactly?"

Reilly already had his hand on the doorknob, but turned back around to face Jeb anyway. "Well, you know -- he developed an artificial womb and all..." Reilly trailed off, a look of shock dawning over his face. "He _did_ say to tell you something."

Jeb remembered that Reilly was working with Doctor Prescott on his latest project -- and after all, Prescott had taken Reilly under his wing while he was still a scared little intern, so it made sense that Reilly would be Prescott's cat's-paw of choice.

"What?" Jeb said.

"Ter Borcht said..." Reilly trailed off, thinking, before rattling off the next clump of information. "That he wants you to keep a personal eye on the host they chose, so he's having her sent over to the States ASAP." Reilly paused. "And that's all."

"Thank you, Reilly," Jeb said.

Reilly left.

Jeb felt cold. Oh, God -- ter Borcht coming to the States.

Jeb hadn't seen him in person since -- since that damn _Christmas party_!

This was going to _suck_.

He consoled himself with his fifteen-year-old notes on the Angel Experiment, interesting snapshots of his mind long before Maximum had even been born.

Before quite a lot of things had happened, come to think of it.

And although he allowed himself to be pleased at the thought of the scientific value of the artificial-womb project, he suppressed, however small it actually was, the feeling of joy at seeing ter Borcht again.

It just wouldn't do.


	2. Change Over Time

Chapter Two: Change Over Time

Normally, getting the opportunity to leave the grounds would have been an exciting prospect -- a chance to get out into the outside world, change his surroundings, sort out his tangled thoughts and make all the little pieces of a new idea _fit_ together.

But, somehow, Jeb just couldn't muster up the energy to feel excited about it. The closest thing to it he could muster up was a vague feeling of dread.

It made him feel kind of sick.

Ter Borcht was flying alone, which was fairly standard procedure for this sort of thing -- it still made Jeb nervous, though. Although ter Borcht had _probably_ left copies of his notes behind in Germany, he'd decided to go ahead and test the prototype without, apparently, making another.

What made it worse, he'd used _himself_ as a test subject for the damn experiment.

All in all, it was just -- _unprofessional_, and that just drove Jeb nuts. It reminded him of his wildly inventive younger self -- but those weren't memories he cared to revisit much, now that he was older, had a steady job, and was medicated.

To make it all worse, ter Borcht looked better than ever, waltzing up to Jeb as if they were old friends and grinning like he'd just won the lottery.

"Dr. ter Borcht!" Jeb said. "Great to see you."

"Just Roland, please," ter Borcht said. _Very businesslike_, Jeb thought.

"All right, then." Jeb glanced at ter Borcht's hands -- sure enough, he was carrying the same battered briefcase he'd always had. "Other luggage?"

"Baggage claim 16," ter Borcht said. "Small suitcase."

"This way." Jeb had been to the airport enough to have a vague idea of where everything was... and sure enough, baggage claim 16 was just where he remembered it being.

"You haven't changed a bit, you know," Jeb observed as they waited for ter Borcht's luggage to arrive. If ter Borcht was going to give up all pretenses of professionalism... well, so was he.

"Thank you," ter Borcht said. "Or was that an insult?"

Jeb considered not saying anything, but relented. What the hell. "Make of it what you will."

"Oh, _that's_ helpful," ter Borcht said, and darted forward, seizing a nondescript black suitcase from the carousel.

Funnily enough, Jeb _still_ had to stop himself from offering ter Borcht help. He might be tall, but damnit, the man was far too skinny to be healthy.

And why was Jeb thinking about him like that, anyway?

As usual, he came up with a decent excuse on the fly: ter Borcht was the subject of an _incredibly_ important experiment. It made _sense_ that Jeb would be concerned for his well-being.

Yeah, sure. And Marian Janssen was the Queen of England.

Jeb turned and started heading for the parking lot.

* * *

Back at the School, there was an uproar.

Jeb had expected no less.

Of course, some of the more socially oblivious scientists were only interested in ter Borcht's plans and notes, but for the most part -- they were shocked and appalled.

Fascinated, of course, but mainly shocked and appalled.

Most of the uproar was over the little fact that ter Borcht had chosen to use _himself_ as the test subject.

The troubling thing about _that_ was that this seeming relapse had taken place _while_ ter Borcht was still on medication, which would indicate that the meds had stopped working on him.

Which was a disaster, because at least 60 percent of the staff were on the same medication.

Thankfully, with the excuse that he'd been personally assigned to work on the experiment with ter Borcht, Jeb managed to quell _some _of the pandemonium by quietly removing ter Borcht from the action altogether.

Actually, he _did_ want to run the "preliminary tests" he'd used as an excuse, but it turned out that ter Borcht had anticipated that, and had all the tests done while he was still in Germany.

Which gave Jeb pretty much nothing to do -- except type up the actual reports.

Thank God he could read German -- though the bulk of the notes _were_ in English, whoever had been taking them had slipped into German from time to time.

"So I see you have a private lab now," ter Borcht said, rather redundantly.

"Yeah. And don't touch that, it's delicate," Jeb said, glancing up to see ter Borcht fiddling with a rack of test tubes.

"I know that," ter Borcht snapped. "I'll be careful."

"Just _don't touch it_," Jeb said. "It's the control group for one of Dr. Prescott's experiments."

Predictably, getting an experiment of some kind involved got ter Borcht to stop messing around; he took his hands off the test tubes and sulked.

"What's the experiment?" ter Borcht asked.

"I have no idea," Jeb said, and returned to typing. The reports were fascinating, in their own way, but they left him with unanswered questions.

A lot of unanswered questions.

"How's Germany?" Jeb asked -- the air-conditioned quiet was starting to feel oppressive, interrupted as it was only by the turn of a page and the tapping of the computer keyboard.

"Not bad. We've been doing some interesting work lately. I miss having you around." Ter Borcht paused for a moment, then added, "We could use someone like you on staff."

"Thanks."

"So are you still dating Valencia?" ter Borcht ventured.

"No," Jeb said, staring at the page in front of him, trying to force the pencil marks to form words. "We broke up a long time ago."

"That's too bad," ter Borcht said.

"It's been ten years," Jeb said, finally discerning words on the page, and beginning to type cautiously. He was nearing the end of the baseline data -- he had maybe a page left to transfer into the School's records, and the handwriting was large and sprawling, making it more like half a page -- and he didn't want to have to talk to ter Borcht without something to do, some other, more important task at hand, something that would make it (slightly more) acceptable for him to stop talking when the conversation veered into an area he didn't like. "We've both moved on since then."

"Really?" ter Borcht said.

"Yes," Jeb said, keeping his eyes on the screen, knowing that if he started thinking too much about old times right now, he'd get distracted and probably wind up either in a shouting match or a depressive funk.

"You just seemed very... _close_ to her," ter Borcht amended.

"I was. The problem was that she wasn't '_close_' to me," Jeb said tersely, and then added, before he lost his nerve, "We just weren't a very good match, that's all."

"You were a cute couple," ter Borcht said, and again Jeb thought, _He really hasn't changed_ _a bit._

"Really. That may have been, but we just... we were _not_ a good match."

"You had chemistry," ter Borcht remarked.

Jeb stopped typing and exhaled slowly. He hated being reminded of that time in his life -- he'd been younger, probably at the peak of his scientific potential, yes, but he'd been emotionally unstable and romantically miserable. And now that he had the luxury of looking fondly back at his past, he found that he didn't want to -- it held too many painful associations, too many reminders of potential opportunities lost, too many memories of things that had once seemed like good ideas, and now had lost their logic. "Maybe we did," he said. "But it's over. She's living in New Mexico now. She's moved on."

"And you're still here."

Jeb said nothing, and tried to focus his attention on the remaining words and figures he had to type up. There weren't enough to keep him busy.

"You're still working on the same project, in fact."

Jeb keyed in the last figures and saved the whole thing to his personal folder on the network.

"It's a long-term experiment," he said, making a rather noble (but ultimately fruitless) attempt to keep any trace of emotion out of his voice. "Just like this one."

"This one you'll be able to let go of once it's over," ter Borcht said.

"You sound like Val," Jeb said. It reminded him uncomfortably of things she'd said to him during the awkward period before they'd finally left each other.

"You talk about her like you want to forget her, but you're the one who's refusing to move on." Ter Borcht paused for a moment, then added, "Personally I think you need to reconsider some things about your life."

For a moment, Jeb struggled to keep a calm face.

"God_dammit_, Roland," he said, and made a fair attempt at storming out of the lab.

As he passed ter Borcht, ter Borcht shot out a hand and grabbed Jeb's wrist, effectively stopping him dead where he stood.

"Being a drama queen won't help anything," he said, and then released Jeb's wrist. "If you want to leave, go ahead."

"I'm _not_ being a drama queen," Jeb snapped, jerking his wrist away from ter Borcht, as if afraid that ter Borcht would grab it again, prevent him from leaving.

"You've never been any good at dealing with your emotions," ter Borcht said. He shrugged. "I was just expressing my opinion."

Jeb stared at him for a moment, trying to come up with a clever response.

Someone knocked on the door, insistently, before opening it.

Unsurprisingly, it was Reilly.

"Dr. Batchelder?" he said.

"I'm busy."

"I know. I just, um, Dr. Prescott wants to know if he could borrow Dr. ter Borcht from you for a little bit."

"For a reason, or just for a friendly chat?" ter Borcht said.

"He didn't tell me, but he says it's about the experiment," Reilly said, stepping out of the hall and into the lab itself. "Sorry to bother you, Dr. Batchelder."

"No, it's all right," Jeb said.

"If it's about the experiment, I'd be more than happy to," ter Borcht said smoothly.

"Great. Dr. Prescott's lab is just down the hall," Reilly said, as ter Borcht walked over to him. "I'm sure it won't take very long."

"That's all right," Jeb said, and Reilly shut the door behind him and ter Borcht.

Honestly, Jeb was rather glad for the interruption. It gave him time to think, and bury his anger away.

And to compile his own list of questions for ter Borcht.


	3. Questions Don't Match Answers

Chapter Three: Questions Don't Match Answers

Jeb started out the same way he always had when he needed to solve a problem: he listed all his questions, one by one.

Because these were his personal notes, he didn't worry about the legibility of his handwriting, nor about writing down the whole question... or making it all even vaguely coherent.

_Why_? he printed. What purpose would be served by ter Borcht's experimenting on himself? He added a note in parentheses: (_experiment -- hypothesis, methods?_)

_How_? in handwriting increasingly fluid and rapid, forcing the speed of his hand on the page to match the flickering speed of thought. Another note: (_mechanics -- donor egg_)

An arrow flicking from _Why?_ down into the open space under _How?,_ and neatly-organized bullet points as they occurred to him:

- _internal organs -- must be rearranged_

_- blood supply_

_- immune system suppression? must match recipient's blood type_

_- eliminating emotional ties of surrogate mother -- next step on road to entirely mechanical process_...

He sat back, hand cramping up now that he wasn't constantly using it to transfer his ideas to the page.

He had absolutely no idea how much time had elapsed -- he checked his watch and found that fifteen minutes, a whole quarter of an hour, had painlessly slipped by him.

That hadn't happened to him in years.

But now, looking at his questions, somehow they ceased to seem scientific. Still glowing in the light of inspiration, they took on personal significance.

_Why?_ became not _Why would Roland ter Borcht experiment on himself?_ but _Why me, of all the people he knows?_ and _Why is ter Borcht disturbing my life now, by trying to strike up a relationship?_ and most importantly _Why is he trying to make me think about my past again?_

And _How?_ became not a question of sheer biology, but _How did he find me?_

But the most important of his thousand questions was one of the _why_ questions: why ter Borcht was stirring up long-buried chunks of Jeb's personal history.

* * *

Doctor Prescott and ter Borcht had met before -- ter Borcht remembered him as a rather tall man, with neat salt-and-pepper hair. But he'd changed since the last time ter Borcht saw him -- the white in his hair had spread, and he stooped a little now.

Everyone, it seemed, at the School had changed.

They shook hands, and Doctor Prescott took a seat behind his desk, leaving ter Borcht to sit down hastily in one of the chairs in front.

It was all rather reminiscent of ter Borcht's school days, being called down to the headmaster's office for a "private conference".

Except, of course, for the fact that Reilly was hovering uncertainly by the door, waiting for Doctor Prescott to dismiss him.

Come to think of it, that made it all _more_ reminiscent of ter Borcht's school days, in a surreal way.

"I've been looking forward to meeting you, Dr. ter Borcht," Doctor Prescott said smoothly, tapping a stack of papers into line. "We've been following your work for some time." He smiled. "I didn't imagine I would be meeting you under--" and his eyes flicked noticeably downward, to the surgical dressing just visible under ter Borcht's shirt. "--circumstances like these."

"Neither did I," ter Borcht said. He returned Doctor Prescott's smile, as insincerely as it had been given. "We didn't anticipate the project would achieve completion so soon, and I was the only prospective subject available at the time."

"None of the female scientists volunteered?"

"The only female involved is Marian Janssen," ter Borcht returned, "and for... various reasons she is ineligible."

"Why not hire a subject? God knows we've done it before."

"It's a delicate process," ter Borcht explained. "They elected to perform the surgery immediately after I agreed. We were worried about the stability of the embryo."

"So... forgive me for interrupting," Reilly said shyly, "but what exactly are you working on, Dr. ter Borcht?" He glanced at Doctor Prescott. "I haven't been able to keep up with the latest in our field as well as I wish I could, so I might have missed something."

"We haven't published the full article yet," ter Borcht said, turning in his chair to face Reilly, "so it's quite understandable that you wouldn't have heard of the work we're doing. It's all quite secret." He laughed, mostly to put Reilly at ease -- ter Borcht had gotten a sense of him as a timid, easily startled young man.

"You know what the School does, Reilly," Doctor Prescott broke in. "Well, back when Dr. Batchelder--" ter Borcht wondered if Doctor Prescott noticed the disapproving tone he used when he spoke Jeb's name "--established the School, ter Borcht was at work on the early stages of the same project he's still... working on."

"Our final goal is an artificial womb, capable of surviving outside the human body," ter Borcht said, in his element now that he was speaking about his work.

"Of course it would need its own immune system," Reilly said, then added hastily, "To protect the fetus from any potential bacteria and... stuff."

"Exactly," ter Borcht said, pleased that Reilly knew his way around the topic -- if only in a vague way. "The problem has been combining that with the ability to survive outside of a human body. This latest version is viable in the human body -- our designers gave it its own separate immune system, of course, but then we discovered that in addition to that, it needed to--"

"Reilly, what's the problem always been with organ donation?" Doctor Prescott interrupted, much in the manner of a professor fondly questioning a favorite student.

"Rejection, Dr. Prescott. The body receiving the organ 'sees' the new organ as a dangerous outside element, and won't let it become part of the body."

"And we've mainly solved that," ter Borcht said.

"Without the use of drugs?" Reilly asked, eyes bright with enthusiasm.

"Oh yes. You see, the drugs would have an adverse effect on the embryo," ter Borcht said.

"Of course," Reilly said, and ter Borcht barely suppressed a smile -- Reilly's earnest expression made him seem ten years younger, barely even out of high school, an eager young student again.

"But we've solved the rejection issue." Ter Borcht laughed and waved his hand. "Of course it's all terribly complicated."

"Dr. ter Borcht?" Reilly said hesitantly.

Doctor Prescott spoke over him, though, and ter Borcht didn't hear him.

"How did you solve it, exactly?" Doctor Prescott said.

"Like I said, it's all quite complicated. I've left copies of my notes with Dr. Batchelder -- I brought them over in my briefcase--"

"Ah, that reminds me," Doctor Prescott said, smiling pleasantly. "You were in the middle of some medical tests with Dr. Batchelder, I understand. I'm sorry for so discourteously interrupting you."

"Oh, no, it was no trouble at all," ter Borcht said. "We already performed the first round of tests, before I even left Germany."

"Ah, that's good," Doctor Prescott said. "Nevertheless, Reilly mentioned that you were in the middle of something, and I don't doubt you'd like the opportunity to resume what you were doing...?"

"Thank you," ter Borcht said genially, and stood up to leave. "I've really appreciated the conversation."

"Dr. ter Borcht?" Reilly said, stepping timidly forward towards him.

"Yes?" ter Borcht said, turning to face him.

"You're, um, you're bleeding," Reilly said.

Ter Borcht glanced down -- the blood was seeping rapidly through the white cloth of his shirt, and he wondered vaguely how difficult _that_ stain would be to get out.

"Thank you, Reilly," he said faintly, and crumpled to the ground.


	4. Luck

Chapter Four: (I Make My Own) Luck

Ter Borcht awoke in the infirmary, the inside of which he hadn't seen since... come to think of it, he'd never been in the infirmary before.

He wasn't terribly surprised to see a worried, fuzzy-around-the-edges Reilly hovering nearby. He seemed like the type, really.

Like Jeb had been.

Reilly noticed ter Borcht's eyes focused on him and, inexplicably, blushed. "Your, um, your stitches came, uh, undone," he said, stammering all the way through.

"I figured as much," ter Borcht murmured.

_Well. What an anticlimactic way to end the whole thing... Quite a dramatic failure_, he thought. _All things considered... it's not bad as failures go._

Reilly darted out of ter Borcht's field of vision, and ter Borcht let his eyes drift shut. Back to Germany, then. More experimentation. They'd be able to find a proper host this time, he expected...

He heard the door hiss open, and Reilly's voice, saying something quickly and indistinctly. Then footsteps on the tile, approaching his bed.

Ter Borcht opened his eyes, and was entirely unsurprised to see Jeb, looking even more deranged and sleep-deprived than he had when ter Borcht had arrived.

"At least you're alive," Jeb said irritably, then, fuming, "You should have been more careful, you -- _idiot_!"

"_I'm_ the idiot?" ter Borcht said flatly, struggling gingerly into a sitting position. "_I'm_ not the one who can't get over the girlfriend he broke up with ten years ago!"

"Well, _I'm_ not the one who tore his fucking stitches!" Jeb flared. "Jesus, you're lucky."

"You call this '_lucky_'?" ter Borcht spat.

"You're alive and your experiment is still -- viable," Jeb said. "Thank Dr. Prescott for that -- thanks to him, you're only minus a pint of blood."

"What?" ter Borcht said, dazed.

Jeb motioned towards the door. "Dr. Prescott. He sewed you back up. You're quite lucky we have someone like him, you know."

Ter Borcht waved his hand. "No, no -- the part about the experiment." He felt light-headed.

"Oh. Yes." Jeb blinked. "Well, it's all fine -- you just bled all over the floor of Dr. Prescott's damn office. We got you stabilized just in time." Jeb shook his head. "Didn't you notice there was something wrong?"

"No," ter Borcht mumbled, still processing Jeb's words.

"Well, you shouldn't have strained yourself like that," Jeb observed.

"You sound like my maiden aunt," ter Borcht said. "And... do you mean that... you said that the experiment was 'all fine'. What, exactly, does that mean?"

"It means you're alive and so is the embryo," Jeb said.

He'd never been one for tact, ter Borcht remembered. Although quite possibly that had been due to the alcohol, as they'd only met face-to-face once before, at that Christmas party all those years ago.

"Why didn't you just _tell_ me that?" he said. "You bastard."

"And to think I thought you'd be happy just to be alive," Jeb said.

"In all honesty, I'm more pleased to hear that I won't have to build another embryo, or inform the other half of the team that because I was an idiot, we've been delayed another month or three, and by the way we'll need to build another artificial womb."

Jeb blinked, and then nodded. "Have you gone off your medication yet?" he asked.

"Of course," ter Borcht said. "I took my last dose three days ago."

"That would explain why you've been such a _fucking_ idiot."

"Now, that's not very nice," ter Borcht said, objecting to Jeb's statement.

"It's honest," Jeb said.

"Didn't your mother ever teach you? -- if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all."

"She was more concerned with ensuring that her only son didn't set the curtains on fire with his chemistry set." Jeb paused, then added, "And you're lucky you've got such a mild form of PBD."

"It's perfectly manageable without medication," ter Borcht said.

"Which is why I've gone to the trouble to set up appointments for you with our staff psychiatrist."

"How many people _work_ here?" ter Borcht wondered. The School's staff seemed to have increased by several hundred since the last time he'd been there.

"We're mostly self-sufficient," Jeb said, with a fond light in his eyes. He'd founded the School, and still, in a way, regarded it as a personal project. "Middle of Death Valley, remember? The only things we have to have brought in from outside are food and some medical supplies. And you remember from the last time you were here that most employees choose to live on site, because the commute, even to the closest town, is hours long."

"Yes, I know that," ter Borcht said irritably. "How many people?"

"Can't tell you that," Jeb said, "because then I'd have to kill you." He smiled. "I've always wanted to say that, you know."

"I figured as much," ter Borcht muttered, fiddling aimlessly with a fold in the thin sheet over his legs. "Dr. Prescott -- he's your superior, yes?" ter Borcht asked finally.

"Technically speaking," Jeb said.

"He doesn't seem to -- like you very much," ter Borcht said.

"He doesn't," Jeb said flatly. "I neglected to explain the nature of my experiment to him before I left, so when I up and disappeared for two years, naturally he assumed the, um, worst. Then I came back a few months ago, and, well..."

"I see," ter Borcht said, mainly for the purpose of cutting Jeb off so he wouldn't keep talking. "Where will I be staying?"

"We have some empty rooms in the, uh, 'barracks'," Jeb said. "We always do. You'll be staying in one of them. Once Dr. Prescott clears you to leave, I'll show you which one."

"Clears me to leave? Explain."

"You fainted and bled on his floor, after which he had to sew up a gaping hole in your stomach. By 'clear you to leave', I mean he shows up and determines you're safe to let out of bed."

Ter Borcht nodded, understanding what Jeb was getting at. More or less, anyway. He was more sleep-deprived than usual after his flight over from Germany, and had hit the stage of sleeplessness where he only resisted going to sleep where he was because it would be an extremely awkward place to wake up.

"Where's my shirt?" he asked. He had definitely _not_ left Germany wearing scrubs.

"Good question," Jeb said, and then called over to Reilly, presumably still hovering by the door. "Reilly! Where'd you put his shirt?"

"Whose shirt?" Reilly asked.

"Dr. ter Borcht's shirt."

"Oh, shoot," Reilly said. "Let me see if I can find it."

And, of course, _that_ would be the moment Doctor Prescott chose to finally show up.

Jeb froze, spine stiffening.

Presumably, Reilly also froze dead in his tracks, which left ter Borcht unfrozen, and with the suspicion that he was the only person in the room not terrified of Doctor Prescott.

Then again, he was also the only mad scientist he knew of who had deliberately gone off his meds and then volunteered to undergo surgery. Recently, at least.

Nevertheless, ter Borcht _was_ at least a little intimidated by the man when he strode into the room, looking like Hollywood's favorite mad old scientist. One of the nice ones, of course, the kind who works _with_ the hero instead of against him.

"Good to see you awake," Doctor Prescott said, brushing past Jeb to stand next to ter Borcht's bed. "How do you feel?"

"Fine," ter Borcht said, only lying a _little_ bit, which meant that it didn't really count.

"Lightheaded?" Doctor Prescott asked.

"A little, yes," ter Borcht admitted.

"I'd have expected that," Doctor Prescott said. "You lost quite a bit of blood."

"So I heard," ter Borcht said softly.

"Luckily you didn't require a transfusion," Doctor Prescott said, grasping ter Borcht's wrist firmly to take his pulse. Having finished calculating this measure, he added, "Although you _are_ a universal recipient. Handy, that. Would you lift your shirt, please?"

Ter Borcht did so, and Doctor Prescott peered closely at the new dressing, which remained white and unstained on the outside.

"Looks fine to me," Doctor Prescott said, and stepped courteously back away from ter Borcht. "Well. I judge you're fine."

"Thank you," Jeb said, and Doctor Prescott made his exit -- a little hastily, ter Borcht thought.

He turned to ter Borcht. "You feel up to leaving?"

"Of course I do," ter Borcht snapped. "I'm not a bloody _invalid_."

"All right, all right," Jeb said, laughing and holding up his hands. "Follow me, then."

Ter Borcht got out of the bed, moving a little gingerly to avoid disturbing his stitches. That morning on the flight over they hadn't pained him at all, but now, it seemed, they were determined to make up for lost time.

Reilly was leaning on the door out into the hall, and he looked up, grinning, when he heard Jeb approaching with ter Borcht in tow.

"I found your shirt," he said, holding up the messily-folded garment in question.

"Thank you," ter Borcht said, taking the shirt from him. "May I have a moment to change back into it?"

"Sure," Jeb said. "You don't really have to ask. I'll be waiting for you in the hall."

With Jeb safely in the hall, and Reilly remaining politely in the doorway, facing away from him, ter Borcht had only to dart out of sight of the door to change into his shirt. It was stained, yes, but it was _his_ shirt, not an extra scrub shirt that God knew how many people had worn before him.

And it looked half-decent, even untucked. Or at least ter Borcht judged so -- he didn't have a mirror.

He laid the scrub shirt on the bed he'd been occupying, and made his way out into the hall, cautiously.

"Dr. ter Borcht?" Reilly said timidly.

Ter Borcht turned to face him. "Yes?"

"Can I just have a minute with you?"

"Of course," ter Borcht said.

Reilly yanked ter Borcht back inside the infirmary, where they were no longer on a direct line of sight from Jeb.

"When was the last time you talked to Dr. Batchelder before this week?" he demanded.

It was a rather unexpected question, and so it took ter Borcht a moment to formulate a response. "Quite a while. Ten years?"

"Ah. All right," Reilly said. "Well, I haven't been working here all that long, and..." He sighed. "Well, Dr. Batchelder isn't exactly the cheeriest little ray of sunshine on the staff."

"I can see that," ter Borcht said.

"Ten minutes ago, when you were talking with him like that -- I'd never seen him that happy, that _animated_. I don't think any of us have, except maybe Anne Walker or some of the other people who worked with him a long time ago. Before his wife died." Reilly blew out a breath. "Anyway. The point is, whatever you're doing to him, he's a lot better than he's been in years. So keep it up."

Ter Borcht filed Reilly's speech away for future consideration -- he'd think it over later. "I will."

Reilly smiled. "OK. Thanks, Dr. ter Borcht. It means a lot to us, really."

"You can call me Roland," ter Borcht said kindly.

"Really?" Reilly blushed a brief, fiery red. "OK." His smile reappeared. "Now go check out your new digs with Dr. Batchelder."


	5. Putting Pieces Together

Chapter Five: Putting Pieces Together

The Mojave Desert is one of the most uniquely torturous places in the United States. It's hot, but not a wet, humid heat like the East Coast. And it's dry, but not a refreshing, crisp dry like the slopes of the Rocky Mountains.

It's hot like the space shuttle's engines, and it's dry like the kind of comedy that's an acquired taste.

For most people, it's not a pleasant place to be.

Jeb liked it. He'd grown up in Colorado, and so he was used to dry weather, as well as the occasional brush with heat.

But where most of the School's employees, even those raised in similar circumstances, disliked going out into the Mojave, even if only for the brief walk from main building to barracks, Jeb looked forward to the walk every day.

Even today, when he was making the walk in the broad daylight of a spring morning (which in the Mojave is more like full-blown summer) he took the time to enjoy the dry, welcoming heat of the desert all around him, and the blue, pure-colored sky arching overhead.

This was convenient, because it slowed him down enough that the (definitely _not_ crippled at all, even with a cut-open stomach) somewhat slower-walking ter Borcht could keep up with him.

"There's an empty room right by mine," Jeb explained as they walked, "and I persuaded Dr. Prescott to let you have that one. While you were chatting with him this morning I got your suitcase and briefcase moved into it, so all you have to do is unpack. If you need me for some reason I'm right next door, usually, and you've already got my lab phone number, in case I'm there working and you need to talk to me." He paused to open the door for ter Borcht, and after they were inside, continued, "Any questions?"

"No," ter Borcht said, and followed Jeb quietly down the hall to the room Jeb was speaking of.

It was a little unnerving, but on a list of things that were bothering Jeb right now, ter Borcht's unusual silence was _far_ down the list -- barely above "torrential rainstorm" in relevance to the current situation.

Jeb showed ter Borcht into the room, which was rather reminiscent of a college dorm, quickly pointed out where ter Borcht could find everything, reminded him of the location of the cafeteria (in case ter Borcht should be possessed to actually eat something), and made his exit.

He felt a little irresponsible for it, but... well, ter Borcht could manage well enough on his own, Jeb felt, and besides, Jeb needed some time to think over it all.

Normally he would have gone back to his lab -- where, if he needed them, he had all his tools at his fingertips -- but he _had_ promised ter Borcht that he'd be next door, and so he settled for closing the door and sitting down at his desk.

The desk proved a little too academic and idea-stifling for Jeb's purposes at the time, so he moved the chair against the wall, and somewhere along the line he wound up sprawled across the bed, staring up at the ceiling and thinking about it all.

He would have watched the ceiling fan spin, but he didn't have one. He really didn't spend enough time in his room to need one, either...

Honestly, he was a little hard-pressed to remember the last time he'd _been_ in his room. The last time he remembered sleeping was when he'd fallen asleep in his lab a few days ago, and that didn't really count, it was more of a light doze, really...

OK.

He made a solid attempt at thinking coherently.

Ter Borcht had taken his last dose of medication three days ago. Even if one supposed that ter Borcht had an _extraordinarily_ mild, and therefore easily manageable, form, there was no mad scientist on Earth who could manage perfect normalcy three days after going off his meds (and come to think of it, most of them _were_ male -- interesting, that).

At _best_, you'd get an eccentric professor with a strong tendency towards giggling at jokes no one had told.

At _worst_, you'd get a raving maniac with a superhuman pain tolerance, combined with murderous rages and a healthy side of obsessive dedication.

(Of course, the latter possibility was one that Jeb not only preferred not to think about, but considered pretty much improbable -- although not impossible, being that Jeb was quite used to working with impossibilities every day. It was just more comforting that way... and justified, since if such an extreme case _did_ exist, they wouldn't be able to resist the temptation to take their work public. That or they would commit extreme acts of violence to _defend_ their work. Which really resulted in the same thing in the end... immense amounts of media coverage.)

But ter Borcht fell in between those two extremes, tilting rather strongly toward the milder eccentric-professor variant. (The raving-maniac types tended to meet violent, unpleasant ends at young ages.) Most people did. Ter Borcht was part of "most people".

Or so Jeb had thought. And so, apparently, ter Borcht was also convinced.

Unfortunately, even given the little evidence Jeb had, the conclusion was still undeniable: ter Borcht tilted a little more strongly toward the raving-maniac end of the spectrum than towards the charmingly-eccentric professor end.

Which would probably lead to problems in the future, to say the least.

The evidence itself was as troubling as the conclusion.

Ter Borcht nonchalantly walking around when, in any sane world, he would have at least been on enough painkillers to put a comfortable haze between him and the facts -- just Exhibit A in a gallery of evidence that Jeb suspected would eventually come to span the entire alphabet. Probably quite a few times over, requiring a dip into at least Greek, if not another language with a non-Roman alphabet.

Even if ter Borcht's form of the disorder was more extreme than Jeb had thought it was, the fact that he was veering right back into insanity after being off his medication for only three days suggested that something was fishy in Denmark. At least about the severity of his paranoid bipolar disorder.

And it heralded irritating amounts of bother ahead... if only for Jeb, and everyone else who didn't get to run around in a cloud of inventive mental haze alternating with depression -- in short, all the people who were still on their meds. Or didn't need them in the first place.

Jeb sighed and opened his eyes, wishing he'd had the forethought to at least tack a mildly interesting poster to the ceiling at some point.

It would certainly help when he made attempts (like this) to confront a problem that wouldn't be solved in his usual "list questions and then answer them" manner.

All right. This problem didn't even have the decency to _be_ the kind of problem one solved by lying on the bed and staring at the ceiling. It was too scientific for that.

And at the same time it was too organic and emotional to be the kind of problem he could solve with a piece of paper, a pencil, and the time to think it all through.

But despite those irritating details, he _did_ still have the ability to use the simplest problem-solving method he knew: start at the beginning, start with what you know, and work from there.

So.

What did Jeb know about the situation?

Not, he had to admit, much.

* * *

It wasn't a common disorder. As mental illnesses went, it was slightly more common than Fregoli syndrome, as irritatingly hard to define (and as misunderstood) as schizophrenia, and as elusive as dissociative identity disorder.

Which was to say that: it was madly rare; it was very hard to define satisfactorily; and most people didn't think it was _real_.

After all, there were only a few thousand confirmed cases in the world, most aggregated in the United States and Europe, which accounted for the "rare".

And it sounded like something straight from the typewriter of a hack science fiction writer of the 1950s -- or any time period, really, and not necessarily a science fiction writer, just one who liked _explaining_ the little implausibilities they came up with to make their narrative work -- which explained why most people would have passed it off as a joke upon first hearing of it, and why it was such an elusive disorder: no one had wanted to talk about it for a long, long time.

Most people, however, didn't get a chance to hear about it.

It had been discovered in the 1950s, conveniently enough, (although, because it's fashionable to diagnose people long dead with mental disorders, it was argued that at least one or two afflicted people had worked on the Manhattan Project). Just in time for the Cold War.

Of course, they couldn't agree what to call the damn disorder. The name they invented one week would be too reminiscent of the tabloids the next; the one they invented _that_ week too dull.

Finally they said to hell with it and settled on the distressingly pedestrian, yet somehow ominous moniker of "paranoid bipolar disorder".

Which really didn't do it justice.

But given a name, and fitted into the catalog of bipolar disorders (although really it wasn't a bipolar disorder so much as it was related to them, distantly), one could begin to do research on it. Understand it. And medicate it.

It took them thirty years to discover a medication that would calm the symptoms (allowing the person to reintegrate into normal society -- usually after an institutionalization, as society didn't take kindly to grandiose speeches about one's ideas given in the middle of city streets -- and generally making them into, even if the medication didn't work fully, more of a mildly-eccentric type than a murderously-intense one), but not completely deaden the emotions. Something that would mellow the patient into moods that were socially acceptable, but not completely erase their creative instincts, or kill their passion for science.

It was just as impossible as the disorder itself.

But they did it -- and, paradoxically, they did it with the help of two people who _had_ the disorder. Which made sense, really, because they possessed the creativity, confidence, and drive to find a medication -- and if none existed, to cudgel the universe into _inventing_ one.

Of course, by that time, the disease had been common knowledge for twenty years (having quietly burbled into formal existence in the early 1960s, and going almost totally unnoticed in public view when it came into the knowledge of non-scientists later that decade). There was even a catchy, and disturbingly accurate, name for those who had the disorder: mad scientists. They were mad, and they were scientists, which made the name apt -- and worse yet, those who had the disorder _did_ act like Hollywood's mad scientists. More or less.

But now that there was a cure for it, it erupted into full prominence for a few months; people conducted the usual arguments over whether or not mad scientists should have to give up their creativity to live in society (and somehow never mentioning that the creativity usually went, skipping, hand-in-hand with, yes, the tragically-romantic periods of depression, but also the disturbing fits of rage, during which quite a few unfortunate lab assistants had been murdered).

Then, a young, blonde American woman went missing in South America, and paranoid bipolar disorder sunk gratefully back into invisibility.

Science never had been able to stand up to petty gossip.

This time, it was happy about that fact. (Science, in fact, vowed to buy petty gossip a round of drinks the next time they were together. Gossip had done quite a bit for science, and it was time science repaid the debt.)

But, of course, this being America, there then followed a fad of movies and books (all either modest flops or small successes, none terribly notable in their own right) documenting the disorder.

And then a rash of diagnoses, which had never fully stopped -- given that paranoid bipolar disorder was extremely hard to fake, even for the seasoned actor, and given that it seemed to be a randomly-acquired misfortune, it enjoyed the sort of legitimacy and longevity few disorders ever receive.

Jeb had been diagnosed in the early 1990s, just after... come to think of it, it had been quite soon after the Christmas party. He'd been put on medication, and fallen cheerfully into what he'd carefully avoided ever thinking of as life as a shadow of his former, exuberant (if quite insane) self.

Ter Borcht, he supposed, had been diagnosed some time after that, in the late 1990s or so.

And ter Borcht's case, at least as represented in the medical notes on him Jeb had transcribed only a few hours before, was made out to be quite mild, though not so mild as to be manageable with only therapy. Mild enough, at least, that ter Borcht seemed to have been on the same medication since his diagnosis -- which Jeb thought was the result of someone fudging the records, because even in cases as mild as ter Borcht's was made out to be, medication eventually stopped working. It was really just a basic law of life.

And there was another piece to this puzzle:

Anne Walker.

Although in this case she was a minor piece.

Jeb had met Anne sometime in the late 1980s or early 1990s, in that small, important cluster of years when so much had happened to him. Back then she'd been hardly more than a kid (in FBI-agent years, anyway -- she was already thirty when they met) in a skirt-suit, wielding, even while on the job, her two favorite weapons: a cheerful sense of determination (bordering on something like: being the one who wrote the future _and knowing it_), and one hell of a smile.

Her division had been composed of just her and her battered (even back then, when it was somewhere approaching new) Honda sedan, and somehow she'd managed to corral the School into a contract with the government.

Jeb had had to admit to himself, though, both then and many times in the intervening years, that without the contract the School would have long ago fallen to pieces -- and in pieces, they wouldn't have been found by Itexicon. Some of them might have sought jobs there, independently, but... the real strength of the School came out of the fact that all the brilliant minds working there worked together (although they would never admit it to anyone, preferring to believe that they and only they were responsible for their breakthroughs, every scientist at the School had, at some point, at least asked another for advice).

It was rather like a painting by an Impressionist, or a jigsaw puzzle -- or more precisely, like a computer.

The School worked so beautifully because of the parts that made it up, which interacted to create a smoothly-functioning whole: in the beginning there were only four, but recently it had worked out to more than two hundred (if only just -- it varied depending on who was on an extended "sanity day").

And, he had to admit, Anne had become one of those parts, somewhere along the road. A balancing influence on them all -- without her, even the stabilizing power of working at least partly in a group would have faded and failed to hold them together. Both as a cooperative group and as sane people.

Then again, that was what she was paid to do. Maybe there wasn't a personal component in it for her.

There had to be, though -- she'd been invited to that first Christmas party, almost fifteen years ago, and she'd always seemed at ease, chatting with Val whenever she had the opportunity, Anne had an excuse, and they both had the free time... maybe that was just a function of the fact that Anne was more outgoing than any of them combined, though.

So. Given all the pieces of the puzzle that Jeb held, and having a fair go at assembling them into a picture... he had a corner of something blue. Which was useful, but he still didn't know what the puzzle was supposed to _be_.

He didn't know where to _begin_.

He knew:

- that ter Borcht had been on medication

- that ter Borcht definitely had paranoid bipolar disorder

- that ter Borcht had a more severe form than anyone had thought

- the history of the disorder

- Anne Walker and her involvement with the School, although not the importance of either to whatever grand theme tied this all together

- one hell of a recipe involving shrimp and pasta, although he wasn't quite sure what that had to do with all this. It was probably due to the stress, which was quite capable of bypassing the medication and entirely short-circuiting Jeb's ability to think logically

Which reminded him of the fact, idly considered earlier, that he honestly couldn't remember when he'd last slept, and that it might be a good idea to, for once, make a concession to the limitations of his mental stamina and sleep.

It would probably make him quite a bit more clearheaded, too.

So he gave in and, after palming his glasses onto the bedside table (or rather, the section of floor currently approximating one -- he'd have to be careful of those when he woke up), fell into a light doze.

One that was, irritatingly, interrupted after what he judged as only a few minutes by a knock on the door.

Jeb, resigned and attributing it to something like God telling him he really shouldn't try to subvert his established behavior patterns, scrambled to get his glasses back on and called out, "_Yes_?"

"It's locked," a muffled voice said through the door.

Jeb swiped at his eyes and went over to unlock the door. Given the size of the room, he hadn't far to go.

He yanked the door open and confronted a face he'd expected to see, wearing an expression he hadn't.

Ter Borcht.

Smiling.

"What do you need?" Jeb asked. "The cafeteria's in the main building, I can show you where that is."

"I don't want to see the cafeteria," said ter Borcht. "I want to see _you_."

Jeb blinked, unable to come up with an answer.

Ter Borcht took advantage of Jeb's silence and kissed him.


	6. Consideration

Chapter Six: Consideration

Jeb had forgotten the most significantly portentous symptom related to PBD: unusual charisma.

Having recognized this, another corner of the puzzle fell into place, suddenly and with a quiet thump.

Fact: Jeb was feeling the effects of ter Borcht's presence.

Fact: Since there were effects, ter Borcht was displaying unusual charisma -- also shown in the behavior of everyone who'd had contact with him.

Fact: in patients with PBD, unusual charisma was a warning sign that the disorder's effects were worsening.

This all occurred to Jeb in a very small amount of time. But while it was an important train of thought, it was far overshadowed by another observation, that

Fact: ter Borcht was just as good a kisser sober as he was drunk.

* * *

When in doubt about your emotions, goes the introvert's adage, ask a close friend.

So Jeb did.

After explaining the problem in hand, he asked her, fairly reasonably, "So what do I do?"

His friend -- Dr. Harrison, one of the three remaining founding members -- sighed and sipped her coffee (which could rather honestly be described as omnipresent -- Jeb had never really seen her without a mug in her hand). "I'm not your therapist. I'm not going to fiddle around in your personal business."

Which was what Jeb had expected, really, and why he'd come to her for advice, rather than gone to someone else.

"But -- I can give you my scientific opinion on the matter. Would that help?"

"All right," Jeb said grudgingly.

"OK," she said, leaning back in her chair. "Even without seeing ter Borcht myself, your description tells me that something is, as you so colorfully put it, 'fishy in Denmark'. You said he's on medication, correct?"

"Yes." Jeb named the most common, oldest, most (usually) reliable medication on the market.

"And he went off it three days ago?"

"That's what he told me, yes," Jeb said, neatly sidestepping the fact that the blood work done on ter Borcht before he'd left Germany showed very, very low levels of the chemicals that the medication he'd been on produced when metabolized -- suggesting that something was further fishy in Denmark, or that ter Borcht had been lying.

"OK. Is that contradicted by any evidence you've seen?" She sipped her coffee, and added, "That is, is there anything that suggests to you he's lying?"

Damn. She'd seen right through him.

"There's something fishy in his blood work," Jeb said.

"What, specifically?"

Jeb explained what the blood work done in Germany had shown.

She nodded. "OK. Just for a moment -- consider: what if the tests they did weren't accurate?"

"I'd have to do tests of my own, to see if their results were accurate."

"And what if they were deliberately lying to you?"

"Why would they do that?" Jeb asked.

"Don't try to rationalize it. Just think: what if they were lying to you? If the tests were accurate, but they've altered the results?"

Jeb shook his head. "They didn't."

"How do you know?"

"I don't know," Jeb admitted.

Doctor Harrison grinned at him over her coffee. "If you'll permit me to speak off-the-record for a moment? Figuratively speaking, of course."

"Go ahead," he said hesitantly.

"All right. You're committing a pretty standard error here -- accepting that one viewpoint is true before you've proven it so."

"It's the rational viewpoint."

"So it appears," Doctor Harrison corrected. "It seems to be rational, based on the little evidence you have right now. It may not, actually, be the right answer."

"Can you just _help_ me?" Jeb said.

"That's my intention," Doctor Harrison said, then coughed. "Sorry. Got distracted. Where was I? Catch me up."

"Either ter Borcht's been off his medication for longer than three days, or the medication itself passes through his system extremely fast," Jeb said.

"Right." She sipped her coffee. "Let's go with number one. I like it better, at this point in the process. So what would cause you to suspect that ter Borcht has been off his medication for more than three days?"

"Nothing," Jeb said.

"Does he have a reason to lie about something like that?"

"Not that I can think of."

"OK." She grinned. "Which brings us to option two: ter Borcht metabolizes the medication faster than normal. Explain to me what, exactly, that would entail."

"I almost flunked my psych rotation in med school," Jeb muttered.

"Doesn't matter," Doctor Harrison said. "Tell me what it would mean."

"That his body processes it more quickly than normal," Jeb said.

"I said that. Something I haven't stated?"

Jeb continued on, floundering. "That... ter Borcht needs more of the medication to stay stable."

"Right you are," Doctor Harrison said softly. "For cases like his, the dosage is usually much, much lower."

"Uh-huh." Jeb nodded, not really hearing her, and then added, in a musing tone, "Which would mean... that... ter Borcht's case is more severe than stated."

"I'm going to stop you there," said Doctor Harrison. "Your assessment is right on, I think. The next step is to see how well it stands up to the truth."

Jeb nodded.

"Means you'll have to talk to him instead of running away," Doctor Harrison said.

"'Kay," Jeb said.

Doctor Harrison eyed him for a moment. "Put that off for a while, I think, though. You need to sleep. Before you collapse in the hall."

He nodded. He knew that sleep would probably be more than beneficial for him at the moment, given how long it had been since he'd had a good, proper sleep (actually sleeping in a bed would be a _bonus_), and how exhausted he felt, both physically and emotionally.

Of course, actually admitting any of that was _not_ in the plan -- what _was_ in the plan, if it came up, was pretending that he was just taking Doctor Harrison's advice to make her feel good, not because he was barely resisting the temptation to fall asleep right there. (It wasn't even a very comfortable chair, and where once he would have just said to hell with it and fallen asleep anyway, curled up like a cat with his head tilted against the back of the chair, determined to catch any scrap of sleep he could, Jeb was really no longer young enough to get away with that without his joints staging an intervention at the next opportunity. That was, though, the only thing keeping him from falling asleep.)

She smiled, and he wondered if he'd just gone off staring into space again.

That had happened to him quite a lot, once.

"I can't tell you to go home, Jeb," she said, "but I can tell you to go get some sleep. So I am. As your friend."

"OK," he muttered drowsily. "I will." He paused. "What if... ter Borcht comes looking for me?"

"I'll fend him off," Doctor Harrison said. "Don't worry. You need a break. Go sleep."

"What if he has questions?" Jeb said, yawning.

"I can answer them. Really. You need sleep. You're not a college kid anymore, and you can't pull all-nighters like one either."

"OK," Jeb says. "OK. I'll go."

He makes it out into the hall outside the lounge where she's hiding out without walking into anything -- rather a major accomplishment at the state of sleeplessness he's achieved.

From there, he knows the way back to his room by heart, which frees him up to think confused thoughts, tangled as vines growing inside his head.

James Joyce, eat your heart out.

_You're not a college kid anymore..._

Doctor Harrison knew him when he _was_ that college kid.

Philosophical question (one that seems out of place when there's light all around him and people in the halls) :

Is he still the same person as he was back then?

Philosophical answer (one that seems a little too depressing for this time of day) :

No. He's grown up since then. Been diagnosed with a mental illness, been put on medication (medication that, he purposefully never thinks, killed a crucial part of his creativity and salted the earth where it was buried), fallen in love (twice, and once had been enough for him), fathered two children (one of whom he carefully ignores thinking of as really _his_).

A lot of things have happened to him since then.

Philosophical question (again unsuited to the time, but maybe they're never suited to the time anyway) :

Does that person still exist, somewhere? Do his mannerisms remain? Is some part of him undying?

Practical answer :

No.

He's dead.

Jeb buried him a long time ago.

Maybe, he allows himself to think, unlocking the door to his room (he doesn't remember locking it), there were benefits to killing that part of himself. Certainly he was far more unstable, and prone to depressive episodes lasting for months at a time.

And then again, he was ferociously creative and brilliant. Cheerful.

Come to think of it, Jeb doesn't remember the last time he laughed. Not a courtesy laugh to make someone feel accepted or at ease -- a real, honest laugh.

Probably while he was with the Flock --

Jeb sucks in his breath, cuts that line of thought off at the root, severs it and burns it, just like you're supposed to do with noxious weeds.

No.

He's not going to think about that now.


	7. Introspection Depression

Chapter Seven: Introspection / Depression

_You can't keep running away, Jeb._

He couldn't sleep.

Not with thoughts like these tumbling over in his head, chasing each others' tails, like snakes in endless pursuit of themselves, chaining together into another litany of depression, like the ones he can't remember from so long ago.

Couldn't sleep.

Even though he was tired, and ready (he thought, and he knew from experience) to just sleep anywhere, once he got into bed he couldn't sleep a wink.

He could close his eyes, but not dream, only see shifting, swirling patterns.

This shouldn't be happening to him.

The voices telling him why are a vast and musical chorus:

_It's not fair._

_I'm on medication._

So many others.

_You can't keep running away._

It's Doctor Harrison's voice. He counted her among his oldest friends... but really, was she a friend of his?

Thinking about it, he wasn't sure he _had_ any friends. He'd never really allowed anyone to get close to him -- not even Val.

Never. Not anyone.

He'd never been terribly good at the whole "emotions" bit. Not in his whole life.

And he'd always had the same coping mechanism, he realized dully: denying that there was any problem until something went disastrously wrong, or until he could quietly, privately fix it.

That so rarely worked for relationships, though. It was a pity, really.

Considering it, he really should have changed his methodology a long time ago.

Rule one of sane science: don't get attached to your theories.

Rule one of mad science: break every rule you knew.

No wonder the School employed so many... how had Reilly put it?... cataclysmic fuckups. They were brilliant, all of them, yes, but it was brilliance shot heavily through with madness.

And no wonder Jeb could never get things right. Caught halfway between mad and sane, trying for one but unable to escape the shadow of the other in his head. No matter how hard he tried, he was doomed to failure.

But that was a pathological pattern of thought, and with effort he wrenched himself out of it.

That was the hell of paranoid bipolar: it only affected scientists. Only people with the ability to _see_ what was wrong with them had it.

No one was blessed with the ability to be ignorant of their disorder, either. Oh, you could escape the reality for a time, by escaping _all_ reality through your work, but once you were diagnosed (and it was such a "loud and proud" disorder that it was near-impossible to _not_ be diagnosed if you had it) you couldn't pretend you didn't have it. You had to take your medicine. See your therapist. Pretend to be normal -- and then again, that was just business as usual, wasn't it?

No one is really normal. Especially not at the School.

He opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling, reminding himself again that he'd have to put something up there eventually. Then again, at some point he'd have to start spending more time here. Getting so little sleep couldn't be healthy for him.

He'd never thought that before, he realized -- that lack of sleep would do him harm.

Must be getting old.

It was almost seductive, he thought, drifting out of a doze, the memory of the time before he knew there was something wrong with him.

Somehow, even though they were tainted by regret, looking back, the photographic plates of memory there carried more beautiful images than the ones from more recently.

Something about how, although he was certainly happy now, he'd been happier then, because his joy was always menaced by the possibility of depression.

Perhaps he'd been better off mad. Happier. More certain of where he stood in the world, whether he could even count on his own footing to be solid.

He had known, then, his place in the world. Hadn't been able to be sure of his own moods minutes in advance, but had at least known where he stood.

There had been a few good months, then -- months when he had gotten along well with Val, when his work had gone well for the most part, when he'd felt as if he were on top of the world.

Ever since then, he'd been on one long, mainly downward spiral. Like a game of Chutes and Ladders where he'd rolled a particularly bad turn, the trend of his moods had been ever downward since then.

Oh, the medication had stabilized his (he had thought) natural mercuriality into a plateau of pleasant melancholy, but he really couldn't remember feeling as happy as he had then -- contentment with his state in life didn't count, he reckoned. Not before, and not after.

Just for a few months.

Well, it had been better than nothing, that was for sure.

He really kind of missed it -- even the crushing, crippling depression that had, on occasion, left him unable to function for weeks at a time.

Even that was... _better_... than being stuck in a calm plateau of feeling nothing in particular. True, he hadn't had a major depressive episode in fifteen years or more, but neither had he felt truly, unrestrictedly happy.

He pressed his hands against his eyes, trying to shut out the ceiling -- which, like his mood, was virtually unchanging. Same damn ceiling. Same damn room. Same damn mood and same damn routine from day to day to day.

There were no surprises for him anymore.

That wasn't a good thing.

Surprise had often caused him to turn corners in his thinking (before), often allowed him to fit the puzzle pieces he had together in new ways -- realizing that he had the pieces from two, or even three, different puzzles, for instance (and then assembling all of them into either one coherent whole, revealing that they _were_ part of the same picture, or assembling all the different collections of pieces into partial pictures of their own).

To solve the problem he had before him, he needed some change in his life. That was how it had always worked. (Usually the revelation had arrived at an inconvenient time, but now and again it would come to him shyly, when he wasn't working on anything special, as if afraid to interrupt him -- _are you doing anything important?_ the answers always seemed to ask. _I don't want to bother you or anything, but... you see...)_

He cast a hand out, searching by touch for his glasses. He couldn't rely on his own shifting moods for help this time -- he'd have to do something he hated to do, and ask someone for help.

Who, though? (He hooked his glasses on, clumsily.)

Someone who had no personal investment in the project.

Someone who didn't know Jeb well enough to question why he was suddenly changing his established behavior patterns to seek help.

Someone who had a basic grasp of the principles involved...

That, of course, didn't make it clear who.

So he made a cognitive leap (landing well short of the footprints he'd made making earlier ones, when he was mad) and a decision:

Reilly.

He could trust Reilly.

Or at least his instincts said so.

And for the moment, he trusted them.


	8. Lucidity

Chapter Eight: Lucidity

Reilly was occupied sketching when Jeb found him.

Hesitant to interrupt, Jeb hung back for a moment.

Fate, however, was determined not to let him get away with that, and so, with a quiet cough, it alerted Reilly to Jeb's presence.

Or something like that must have occurred, because although Jeb hadn't made a sound, Reilly still noticed he was there. It bordered on precognition.

Reilly sketched in a few more lines and glanced up at Jeb, covering the drawing with his other hand. "Hey," he said, making what Jeb recognized as a brave attempt to sound casual.

"Can I talk to you?" Jeb said, reminded, for some reason, of the first time he'd asked a girl on a date. Maybe it was the nervousness.

"Yeah, no problem." Reilly stood up and stuck his sketchpad under his arm. "You mind if we go outside? It's awful cold in here."

"Yeah, sure," Jeb muttered. It had been a singularly odd day -- Jeb thinking about his past, Prescott meeting the man whose work he'd followed (and, secretly, supported, but no one needed to _know_ that) for a decade, and now, Reilly taking the lead in something.

Jeb let Reilly lead the way outside.

"I just... need to get out, you know?" Reilly said, as if called to explain himself. "And it's so nice out here, too."

"Sure is," Jeb said noncommittally.

There was a smoking area huddled against the wall, facing out into the open desert, and that was where Reilly headed.

Jeb didn't doubt he knew the way -- smoking was practically an honored institution among mad scientists, and they'd had to concede to that while designing the School. He wasn't sure if Reilly smoked, but he figured the odds were good that at some point, he had.

Reilly took a seat on the bench, propping his ankle on his knee and setting his sketchpad on the makeshift table.

He glanced up at Jeb, and gestured at the bench. "Go ahead. I don't bite."

Jeb sat down at the far end of the bench, not eager to bring himself into contact with anyone.

"You wanted to talk to me," Reilly said, beginning a sketch of the Animal Testing building, which stood a little way distant.

Evidently Reilly had gotten used to dealing with mad scientists and their short attention spans.

Jeb could appreciate that.

"I -- need your help," he said, making eye contact with the dirt.

"I'm not going anywhere. Ask away."

Jeb said nothing, looking out into the desert instead.

Reilly's subject, the Animal Testing building, rose out of the sand and dirt in serene, spare white lines, standing like a quiet monument to Science, a modest Ozymandias if there ever was one.

It hadn't gotten very late while Jeb was struggling to sleep -- the sun still hung over the horizon (although barely), lying comfortably in a corona of red.

When the four of them had been invited to establish the School here, all those years ago, Jeb had jumped at the opportunity. (The problem had been persuading the other three to take the offer. He'd managed it in the end, though.) He'd fallen in love with this desert the first time he saw it... and it still never failed to lift his spirits.

Or it never had before, anyway.

Sunset had long ago ceased to mean anything for Jeb -- at least, as a marker of time. It had become something he rarely took notice of, working until dawn as he often did. But when he did see it, it had remained, at least, a symbol of renewal -- the sun as phoenix, preparing for its resurrection.

Now he wondered if the sun was tired.

" 'The lone and lifeless sands stretch far away'," Jeb said, surprised that he still remembered it (legacy of English 101 that it was, and _that_ was years and years ago), and surprised that it had slipped its chains to escape wherever forgotten things go.

"Shelley, right?" Reilly glanced up momentarily, smiling, then spoke as he returned to sketching. "Percy Bysshe. 'Ozymandias', I think?"

"Yeah," Jeb muttered, scuffing at the dirt beneath the bench with his shoe.

"It fits, doesn't it?" he said, shyly, then added, "What do you need my help with?"

Jeb was tempted to just walk away, say it had been a mistake, say he'd solved it already -- just _leave_.

But he'd made a commitment to someone else, this time.

He was stuck until the end.

"Not poetry, I'm guessing," Reilly said.

Jeb shook his head, scrabbling for words. "It's... Dr. ter Borcht," he said, finally forcing the sentence out.

"Ah." Reilly nodded and flipped the page, beginning on a sketch of someone's cigarette butt, lying forgotten in the dust.

He drew it, Jeb noticed, as if it had just been extinguished. Not as if it had been lying there for God knew how many days. As if whoever had been smoking it had just gotten up and left a moment ago, called to more important business than this.

"What about him?" Reilly asked, shading the side of a rock, adding the arch of a snapped-off twig lying beside it.

"I was... talking with Dr. Harrison earlier," Jeb began hesitantly, "and we -- found out that -- he's gone off his meds and..." He broke off for a moment to gather his thoughts, and then said rapidly, "What I'm trying to say is that -- he's relapsing, and that makes me afraid that _I'm_ relapsing, and he won't _shut up_, I don't like to think about my past and he knows that and he won't stop bringing it up and oh God it's so confusing."

Reilly drew in a breath, and Jeb saw his hands shake for a moment before he steadied them to sketch the skeleton of a tumbleweed in bloom. "I'm gonna guess you're talking about the paranoid bipolar disorder?" he said to fill the silence.

"Yes," Jeb said, his voice tight. "He -- he was diagnosed after I was, but his case is -- so much different -- it's unique in how fast it's progressing -- I'm worried about him, damn it!" Jeb burst out.

"It only makes sense," Reilly said. Jeb, fixing his gaze on the dirt beneath the bench again, heard him turn another page, and then the whispery sounds of rapid sketching before Reilly spoke again.

"From what I've heard," Reilly said quietly, "he picked you personally to watch over this experiment. I don't know why he'd do that, but he did. And I talked with him earlier... it's all very fascinating, new stuff. But he hasn't tested it on anyone else before -- they've barely gotten out of animal trials -- so he doesn't even know how dangerous it is." Reilly shrugged. "Personally I think you have every right to be worried about him right now."

It all felt very strange and anticlimactic to Jeb, hearing someone say it so plainly.

_You have every right to be worried about him right now._

He'd been practically sure that Reilly wouldn't understand, and now, knowing that he did, Jeb felt almost let down in a way. Things had failed to turn out as he'd expected.

Expecting the wrong results was probably why he'd gotten himself into so much trouble over the course of his life, anyway. It was a bumper sticker (or something): Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

(Although in this particular case, insanity wasn't something you could distill down to a clever bumper sticker slogan. It rarely was in _any_ case, really.)

"Thanks," Jeb said.

"Oh, it's no problem," Reilly said, shrugging it off. "I may not have worked here for very long, but I'm starting to understand you guys."

"You missed your calling," Jeb said. "Maybe you should have been a psychiatrist."

Reilly laughed. "Nah, it's not really my thing. I never got the hang of it. Gave me the creeps, too."

"What, and the School doesn't?"

"No." Reilly glanced quizzically at Jeb. "Should it?"

"Depends on whether or not you think we're playing God," Jeb answered.

"I think we're not just _playing_ God here," Reilly said seriously, "we're God's _understudies._"

Jeb smiled, and then broke out laughing, at the image that thought brought to mind -- God just an actor on some universal stage, and _them_, of all people, called up to replace Him.

Probably on opening night, too -- the universe was perverse like that.

Opening night, with a day to learn their lines beforehand.

And, just to be cruel, the universe would probably make the play something by Chekhov.

Performed in the original Russian.

Before such an onslaught of hilarity, Jeb was helpless to do anything but laugh until his ribs hurt.

He didn't notice that Reilly was staring at him like he'd just mixed a beakerful of merrily colored chemicals together and toasted Queen Victoria's health with it.

Nor did he notice that, inside the staff lounge, which had a window through which one could make out the smoking area, money was changing hands with an air of shocked disbelief.

Jeb Batchelder, _laughing_?

Hell must have frozen over.


	9. Food For Thought

Chapter Nine: (Cafeteria) Food For Thought

There are a few things in this world that never change, though empires may fall, students may protest, and elections may be held.

The quality of institutional food is one of those constants.

Honestly, ter Borcht wished it weren't. Getting some variety once in a while would be nice... something _besides_ mystery meat would be good enough, actually, even if it were just, say, tuna casserole.

He didn't even want to be there, and if it were at all possible, would have stayed the hell away from the cafeteria for as long as he was at the School (however long that turned out to be in the end).

But Reilly had ganged up with Jeb, and together the two of them had pressured him to "just eat _something_"... which, in the end, translated into staring down a serving of the (aforementioned) tuna casserole, wondering if it were possibly for food to be suicidally depressed. (If so, the tuna casserole badly needed counseling before it did something very, very regrettable.)

Sitting at a prudent distance (in case the casserole decided to take one of them with it in the throes of its depression, ter Borcht thought morbidly), Reilly bit into his Sloppy Joe and cringed.

"This tastes like depression," he said, blatantly disobeying every mother's first commandment by talking with his mouth full.

Jeb shot Reilly a Look that plainly said 'look, a cafeteria full of people who have all had at least _one_ major depressive episode is _not_ the best place to say that', or, more plainly, 'that was politically incorrect and you're going to Hell'.

"It does," Reilly said. "Really, I'm not even kidding -- it tastes like the tears of a thousand emo kids."

Jeb's Look changed from 'well, _that _was politically incorrect' to 'what in Hell's name are you talking about?'

Ter Borcht took a tentative bite of the casserole. It tasted... like mayonnaise. Which wasn't so bad, considering the alternative -- apparently, the cooks at the School used distilled depression as a flavoring agent. According to Reilly, at least.

It was probably a damn sight better than MSG, as far as flavoring went.

Reilly made a stabbing gesture with his fork (he'd given up in eating the Sloppy Joe like a hamburger, and had been picking at it with a fork as it lay in its little paper basket). "_This_ reminds me why I hated cafeteria food in middle school."

"What, not in high school?" Jeb asked quietly.

Reilly grinned. "I pretty much skipped high school."

"That explains a hell of a lot," Jeb muttered.

Reilly propped his elbows on the table. "What do you mean by that?" he said, smiling and tilting his head.

"It explains your unique charm," Jeb said.

Ter Borcht laughed, and almost choked on his casserole.

"Unique charm's about the size of it," Reilly muttered darkly, prodding the Sloppy Joe with his fork again, as if to reassure himself that it really was dead, not just plotting its revenge. "Maybe something more on the order of 'utter social outcast'."

This effectively stopped the conversation dead -- ter Borcht figured that they'd _all_ fit the bill of "utter social outcast" while still in school. Or at least until they'd hit that stage where academic achievements started to be cause for awe less than cause for a round mocking from their peers.

So it hit too close to home to be funny.

Jeb glanced over at ter Borcht. "You're not eating."

"I'm not hungry," ter Borcht said, resisting the temptation to comment on his fear that if he made an attempt on the life of the tuna casserole, its brethren would make an attempt on his. And there was more than enough tuna casserole to make that a (fairly -- honestly, this was talking about _killer food_ here) serious threat.

"You should eat something," Jeb said.

Reilly laughed. "Oh, you're in for it now," he said.

"Really," ter Borcht said, shaking his head. "I'm not hungry, I ate already."

"Sure you did," Jeb said. "You haven't eaten since you got here, and you've already been here a day."

"I'm not hungry," ter Borcht protested.

"He's not gonna stop until you cave," Reilly warned, making a fairly obvious (and quite ineffective) attempt to hide a smile.

Jeb ignored Reilly's comment (which, ter Borcht suspected, was a fairly common occurrence -- or at least common enough that Reilly had gotten used to it). "Come on."

"Who are you, my mother?" ter Borcht said.

"He mothers _everyone_," Reilly said, rolling his eyes. "Either you get used to it, or you go crazy...er."

Gallantly ignoring Reilly _again_, Jeb continued. "No. But you need to eat."

"I'm _fine_," ter Borcht snapped. "Besides, you're not exactly a paragon of regular eating habits."

There was silence.

Not a lot of silence, but enough to drive the point home for any eavesdroppers who still had their doubts: these three didn't exactly have the sunshiniest of relationships. And would probably have claimed that they didn't have a relationship, thank you very much, and there was none of _that_ going on at all. (They would have had to be reminded that mutual hate -- or dislike, anyway -- is _still_ a form of relationship, albeit not a very pleasant one. Well, it's fun to watch, but it's no fun at all to participate in. Where were we?)

"No, I wasn't," Jeb said, keeping his calm (although God alone knew how -- God, and, perhaps, his therapist). "Sometimes I forgot." He paused, seeming to have lost his train of thought. "You _still_ need to eat, though."

Reilly smiled, then burst out laughing (drawing only a little attention from the other people in the cafeteria). "God, this is better than Days of Our Lives," he said, laughing.

Jeb glared at him. "This is serious."

Reilly was, from the expression on his face, clearly about five seconds from a regrettably smart-assed retort, but inspiration chose that moment to crack him one over the head with the brick of sudden, astonishing realization.

If there had been a lightbulb above his head, it would have lit up.

"Jeb..." Reilly began. "I mean, Dr. Batchelder..."

"Yes?"

"How long has it been since you've taken your meds? I mean, not to intrude or anything, but..."

Reilly, ter Borcht decided, was much more fun when he was blissfully ignorant of the fact that he wasn't a doctor yet.

Jeb's eyes narrowed. "I took a dose this morning, Reilly. Your point?"

"No, you didn't," Reilly said.

"What do you mean, I didn't?"

Ter Borcht took the opportunity to put the casserole out of its misery, with the trash can as his accomplice (no jury would convict him).

"I know you didn't. You were still in your lab when I got up this morning at six, and you didn't leave there until ten."

"I could have taken it some other time," Jeb said, with the distinct air of a kid telling his mother that he had, in fact, brushed his teeth, and so _what_ if she hadn't seen him do it. "After I left."

"No, you couldn't have," Reilly said patiently. "Because after you _left_ the lab, you came with me to get Dr. ter Borcht, and after _that_ we came here."

"Why would you even have tuna casserole for breakfast?" ter Borcht wondered aloud.

"Do not question the institutional kitchen," Reilly dead-panned. "The School doesn't run on a set pattern of what food is for breakfast, what's for lunch, and what's for dinner. Be glad it wasn't _moving_."

"I doubt they'd go that far," Jeb said dryly, good humor seemingly regained (which, to ter Borcht, was sure testimony that Jeb actually hadn't taken his meds).

"Are you _sure?_" Reilly said.

"They'd at least kill it first," Jeb said.

"_You_ haven't eaten anything," ter Borcht said. "Hypocrite."

From the look Jeb gave him, ter Borcht had just committed a breach of etiquette roughly on par with stabbing a kitten to death.

Among mad scientists, this is a hard thing to accomplish, being that established etiquette basically consists of "don't kill your coworkers", and even _that_ is a mutable rule.

"Have you forgotten?" Jeb said lightly. "I _am_ supposed to 'keep a personal eye' on you."

"You're _also_ supposed to take care of yourself while you're at it," ter Borcht said, with more vindictiveness than was strictly called for.

"You're my first priority," Jeb said, then added hastily, "At least for now."

Ter Borcht _badly_ wanted to make a dramatic exit, but resisted the temptation, knowing that if he tried, he'd wind up getting lost, and that wouldn't have _quite_ the effect he'd intended.

He settled for saying, "I can take care of myself."

"I'm just supposed to keep an eye on you," Jeb said, voice deliberately cool. "Not necessarily take care of you."

"From the way you've been acting, that's what you _want_ to do," ter Borcht said, and immediately realized he'd gone too far.

If Jeb had been cool before, he was downright _frozen_ now.

He left without a word, leaving ter Borcht and Reilly behind in his wake.

Reilly looked at ter Borcht and sighed, poking the long-suffering Sloppy Joe one last time with his fork. "He's kind of like that sometimes," he said.

"I know," ter Borcht said.


	10. Looking Backward

Chapter Ten: Looking Backward

Jeb didn't smoke. Usually.

He'd quit years ago -- or, more precisely, he'd never really taken to the habit, preferring caffeine (if he had to have a vice, he'd make it one that wouldn't kill his lungs).

Right now, however, he found himself falling back into old patterns of thought -- and the best way to counter those, he'd found, was with an old coping strategy.

So maybe it wasn't the healthiest thing in the world -- so what? He was a _mad scientist_, after all -- death (violent, usually) was just another occupational hazard. Compared to that, a little nicotine every once in a while didn't seem so bad.

Neither did lung cancer, even. At least cancer was _treatable_. Next to getting clawed apart by a recombinant or infected with a modified influenza virus, cancer seemed about as much of a big deal as a sore throat.

The other thing about mad scientists was that... they never _planned_ anything. Anything. (Which was possibly why... relationships between colleagues, who happened to be mad scientists, never really worked out for the better.)

Which was how Jeb found himself standing out in the morning sunlight, smoking a cigarette he'd bummed from the only other person out there (apparently a programmer, judging from the T-shirt and jeans, at the end of a long session of coding), and making a pretty fair attempt at just looking at the desert.

Well, squinting at the desert, really. It reflected light like a mirror.

All things considered, maybe this wasn't the most effective of coping strategies, always running from whatever he couldn't deal with on the spot. Sometimes it worked, and running away gave him time to think it all over.

Most times, he wound up in trouble.

Damn it.

He blinked. His eyes felt sandy, the eyelids heavy. No thinking about anything serious right now.

What he needed was just a little relaxation. Meditation. Staring at the desert for a while... and damn it, there went his rhyme scheme.

Such that it was.

He wasn't much of a man for secrets, but one he kept even though it was obvious was this: Jeb Batchelder, scientific genius, had come within an ace of flunking English 101.

His roommate, by strange coincidence (or what Jeb preferred to think of as someone watching after him) had been an English major (and fairly competent writer -- though Jeb was no judge of that, being that his latest brush with a good novel had been _Frankenstein_, and that didn't really count) who had also _almost_ flunked an easy class.

It turned out that Physics for Poets was rather beyond either of them, and Jeb had settled for, in exchange for English tutoring, a series of late-night cram sessions centering around the segments of math his roommate had ditched in high school. (And in college.)

The English tutoring really hadn't made up for those long, frustrating hours of summarizing basic algebra for a dumbfuck poet... and why the hell was he thinking about his college roommate, anyway?

_You can't keep running away_.

Yeah, like he hadn't heard _that_ repeated back at him a thousand times. He'd learned to ignore it after a while, learned that, eight hundred out of a thousand, getting some distance between him and the problem actually _did_ help.

The other two hundred, it at least gave him time to think.

Then again, maybe his strategy had finally failed him, this time around. Or maybe it just didn't _work_, when applied to relationships. Like trying to write haiku using one of Watson and Crick's theories, or using a quadratic equation to find out if X equaled the battle of Gettysburg.

Rule two of sane science: Any hypothesis can fail.

Rule two of mad science: Any hypothesis you thought failed _will_ work in the end -- just to spite you.

Which meant that no matter how much he knew he _shouldn't_ have run away... he couldn't give up the chance that maybe this time it would work, and everything would suddenly make sense.

Yeah, right.

He might be mad, but he wasn't _delusional._

Huh.

Maybe smoking had done him some good after all, and it was stopping that had really started to fuck around with his head.

No, that didn't make sense.

And you'd have to run proper trials to test it. Which would be a bitch to set up, what with finding people with his background and variant of PBD, and you'd first have to test whether the background effected the chemistry of the brain in the first place, and _then_ you could test how nicotine effected the patient's brain chemistry...

He was really over-thinking this, wasn't he?

Sometimes, yes, even over-thinking had its virtues, but most of the time it led to nothing helpful.

It had, on some occasions, even led him into mistakes that would have been legendary in caliber... had he been tempted to admit making them.

Put another one down on the list of his personality flaws, then.

He sighed and ground his cigarette out in the sand. He hadn't smoked since college. Maybe not since late high school.

He definitely remembered not smoking when he met Val, and that had been in... college? Yeah. College.

Could it all really have been -- he did the math -- fifteen years ago? Really?

There was _no way_ he was that old.

_wait until you're forty, kiddo_

He blinked.

Memory was usually more tactful than that.

Apparently, today was determined to be odd, though.

_my real aims lie in genetic recombination _

He glanced over at where the programmer had been, leaning against the wall like a lazy construction worker.

No one was there.

Jeb, tentatively, allowed himself to remember.

* * *

"--did you get all the charisma, huh?" Jeb punched Prescott in the arm, laughing.

"Watch yourself, kid," Prescott growled. "Wait until _you're_ forty, kiddo."

"I'll never be that old," Jeb promised.

(God, did he miss 1991, Jeb realized, looking back. Christmas of that year not so much. But it had been a good year, overall.)

"I'm not old, I'm experienced."

"Sure. That's why you're still single?"

(He grinned, closing his eyes against the bright, bleaching desert sun. He'd been nuttier than Brazil, but he'd been pretty fast with a one-liner. And he suppressed a comparison to Reilly -- the kid definitely didn't deserve a PBD diagnosis at his age.

(OK, even though Jeb had been hardly older than Reilly was now when he got diagnosed.)

"I'm married to my work, Jeb. Just as every mad scientist should be."

"Maybe I'm a new breed of mad scientist, huh?"

" 'New breed'? Very funny," Val observed, appearing out of nowhere.

(It might have been ten years since he'd even seen her, but it still made his heart, impossibly, _twist_ to think about her.)

"Where did _you_ come from?" Jeb said, startled by her sudden appearance.

"Talking to Anne," she said, tucking a wisp of hair behind her ear. "Get your eyesight checked, we were standing right over there."

"Sorry, there're too many people here," Jeb said. "Didn't see you."

She laughed.

(God, he missed her laugh. It was one of the things he was glad Max had inherited from Val rather than from him.)

"That means your party's a success, geek-boy."

(All right, so he really couldn't find it in him to miss the stupid nicknames. Maybe that made him a bad person. Or an older one, at least -- no longer familiar with the deep, deep strangeness of being young and in love. Young and confused, at any rate, never minding the possibility of love.)

"You could have just said that," he said.

"Not my fault you're oblivious," she said, shaking her head and smiling. "Have you even -- Wait here for a second, you still haven't even been introduced."

With that, she darted off into the (surprisingly decent-sized) crowd.

(Honestly, it still surprised him that they'd managed to find so many interested people in southern California, late in the 1980s and early in the 1990s. Then again... they'd found most of those present through various channels only available to mad scientists, and some of them had come a fairly decent way from home to investigate the little proposition Jeb and the other three had put together.)

She reappeared after a moment, accompanied by a somewhat confused-looking, sandy-blond man.

(Jeb had heard of "gaydar" -- the ability of gay people to detect "one of their own", that bordered on extra-sensory perception -- even at that early stage in his life.

(From the very first, he'd pegged ter Borcht as a mad scientist. And he'd been right.

(Maybe they were similar phenomena.

(He could look into it... wait, no, he thought, stopping that train of thought dead.)

"This is Dr. Roland ter Borcht," Val said, indicating the sandy-blond man, who nodded to Jeb. "And Dr. Jeb Batchelder," indicating Jeb.

"I've heard of you before," the freshly-introduced ter Borcht said, a grin spreading across his face.

"Your name sounds familiar too," Jeb said. It did. He couldn't remember where he'd heard it, though.

"We work in the same field; it's practically to be expected," ter Borcht said.

"Same field?" Prescott said, dryly breaking into the conversation. "Forgive me, but I thought you were a botanist."

"After a manner of speaking," ter Borcht said. "I've been working mostly in plants lately, but my real aims lie in genetic recombination."

"And it's easiest in plants," Jeb said, less than eager to have Prescott steal his thunder.

"To a degree," ter Borcht said. "E. coli is the easiest by far, but--"

"Plants are actually visible to the naked eye."

Ter Borcht stared at Jeb for a moment before a smile broke across his face. "Impressive. So you _are_ the one I'd heard about."

"The one what?" Jeb said, quite honestly clueless.

"_The_ Jeb Batchelder. I've been following your work -- genetic recombination in mammals."

"Val, _where_ did you find him?" Jeb said, smiling like a kid on... well, hey, it _was_ Christmas Eve.

"You don't remember?" she asked.

Luckily, ter Borcht prevented Jeb from having to ask (and then explain that sorry, he'd completely zoned out during that part). "I had a conference in Los Angeles, and I heard about your -- organization."

"So he figured he might as well drop in."

"Only for a while. I have a plane to catch tomorrow."

Jeb hadn't been paying attention, and it was then, of all moments, more than halfway through the conversation, that he noticed ter Borcht's accent.

"Sorry to intrude," Jeb began, "but..."

Ter Borcht smiled, as if anticipating the question.

(Damn it, why were mad scientists so -- almost telepathic? It was downright freakish.)

"I'm going to guess what you're thinking, mm? I grew up speaking English, and yes, I'd love to work with you, but I'm afraid I can't -- I'm working with Itexicon Corporation in Europe, have you heard of them?"

Jeb attempted to process what he'd just heard.

(He gave his past self three gold stars for this effort. It was a good one, given his state of fuzzy-mindedness at the time.)

"Er... yes..." Jeb said.

(As he had the first time he'd had the conversation, he mourned the loss of a potentially good talk between colleagues.

(It would be missed.)

"I think y'all are standing under the mistletoe," Doctor Harrison observed, appearing from behind Val with the silence of a malevolent ghost.

For once, Jeb was right on the ball, grasping exactly what was going on.

"Oh, you are kidding me--"

"It's the rules," Doctor Harrison said, grinning.

"Val, help me out here," Jeb protested. "You and Anne Walker were talking under the mistletoe earlier, weren't you?"

"No, we weren't," Val said, seemingly determined to take part in all this. "We were hangin' the mistletoe."

"No, you -- the mistletoe was already _there_," he said.

Val rolled her eyes, defusing his (potentially) dangerous mood. "Get it over with."

"Kissin' under the mistletoe brings good luck," Doctor Harrison added. "Trust me, you won't regret it."

(Oh, how wrong she was. Well, so 1992 had been a rather good year, but following his diagnosis in 1993... things had gone rapidly downhill for him.

(Maybe kissing under the mistletoe only brought good luck in the _coming_ year...

(Huh. Well, that would be just his luck, wouldn't it?

(As would be discovering this all years after the fact.)

"Look. Just do it."

Jeb glanced around for support, but no luck -- Prescott had disappeared for another glass of the (spiked, anyway) punch.

Probably wouldn't have been any help, anyway.

Bastard.

"We've just met," ter Borcht said, apparently just having constructed a satisfactorily clever response that didn't involve a blue streak of swearing.

"It's just the rules." Doctor Harrison shrugged and sipped from her own glass of punch. "I don't make them up."

(Dear God, it was like a nightmare.

(One that had, perversely, _actually happened to him._)

"You just enforce them," Jeb said.

Doctor Harrison grinned at him. "Exactly."

"That's not supposed to be a good thing."

"If you just go ahead with it, we can all forget about it," Val said, wisely.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," said ter Borcht, and went ahead and kissed Jeb.

(As Doctor Harrison had gigglingly confessed to Jeb not too long after the party had given 1991 a spectacular send-off, the "rules", such as they were, did, in fact, state that it had to be on the lips.

(Jeb's response to this wasn't something he was terribly proud of, or eager to repeat.)

Once Jeb broke the kiss, he heard a low whistle from Prescott, who had, through some fluke of incredibly poor timing, reappeared with another glass of punch.

"I don't think I want to know," Prescott observed.

"You don't," Jeb said.

"I didn't think you'd actually do it," Val said.

"You underestimated me."

"It was like kissing my sister," ter Borcht said, fearlessly mistiming his entry into the conversation.

"1992 is going to be the _best. year. ever," _Doctor Harrison said, mercilessly slaughtering grammatical conventions in the effort to lend her sentence drama.

(Not that any of them gave a damn anyway.)

"With that as a precedent?" Jeb said, recovering his ability to, off-the-cuff, be a smartass. "It's going to _suck_."

"You kids these days." Prescott sipped his punch.

* * *

He didn't remember very much after that. Scattered fragments of conversation, that was it.

-- What was that?

All right.

He allowed the (only slightly rebellious, compared to those he'd once had the opportunity to entertain) thought through:

_Or_ so he'd thought.

Memory, it turns out, is a perverse thing.

What you want to remember is transient -- the good memories just won't stick.

What you want to forget, more often than not, is permanent.

Of course, this works in more than just that way:

Once you _want_ to remember something (or are at least willing to consider it), you _can't_.


	11. Side Effects May Include

Chapter Eleven: Side Effects May Include

It felt like the morning after. Like mourning.

...Hey, pun.

He cracked an eye open, blinking slowly until the blurry vistas before him resolved into a close-up view of his desk.

His desk. Which was definitely not the smoking area.

Huh.

Exhaustion must have finally caught up with him -- months of accumulated sleep debts at last called attention to by the Mafia of his body, who seemed to have called in a hitman or two.

That was just judging from the headache, mind you.

And judging by the metaphor, his body wasn't the only thing sleeplessness had pushed to the limits of endurance.

He took his head off the desk. From further away, the paper on top of the stack he'd been using as a pillow stopped looking like a salt flat used as a dance hall by birds with ink on their feet, and started looking like it might have English words written on it.

Or at least technobabble.

He had to put his glasses on before the words on the page finally gave up the ghost and became legible.

It was definitely his handwriting.

He just didn't remember writing it.

--Oh wait, it would help if he turned it right-side up.

Even right-side up, he... didn't really remember writing it. Judging from its place on top of the clutter, it wasn't more than a week old.

It was a list of questions. One that he saw a few too many technical words on to even try to make sense of so soon after waking up. (If you could call dozing with his head down on his desk _sleeping_. Which it was in the same way that instant ramen was cooking. There was a difference, but for students, the difference didn't matter.)

He still made a pretty decent effort at it, though, staring at the page until he'd determined that no amount of focus was going to force the words to make sense.

Having given up on reading his pillow, what remained were practical questions to be answered: _What day is it? How long was I out of it? And why do I have such a bad headache?_

_side-effects may include headache_

He rubbed at his aching temples. Medication. Something to do with the _medication_.

Memory loss? No, that wasn't one of the known side effects -- he'd have heard if it were.

Blackouts? Also not a side effect of the... medication...

Well, son of a bitch.

Finding answers, for Jeb, was a bit like a game of hide-and-seek. There are times when you have to go looking for the answer; there are times when the answer is standing right in the middle of the room with its eyes closed, honestly believing it's hidden very well.

And then there are times when the answer just follows you around, politely waiting for you to notice it.

Was he usually this oblivious?

It wasn't the medication causing side effects.

It was that he hadn't _taken_ the medication in the first place.

_Duh._

As Max would have said.

Now really wasn't the time to be thinking about her, though. Save the melancholy for later. He had things to do.

He started looking for the little plastic bottle of pills on the desk. Which was where it _should_ be, given that that was where he remembered putting it.

Then again, since when had things ever stayed where he'd left them?

Once things came into contact with him, they tended to take on lives of their own. Seemed he just couldn't leave inhuman things inhuman -- god_damnit_, there he went again.

(It was like Dostoevsky's fucking polar bear: when you tell the human brain not to think about something, it will oblige. For a few seconds. And then, like a faithful retriever fetching a stick of dynamite, it will proceed to think about whatever it was you specifically _told_ it not to think about.

(Not that that trait hadn't been helpful at times.)

It wasn't on the desk -- no matter how many times he rearranged his meticulously scattered piles of paper, computer printouts, and various... _whatever_, he still couldn't find it.

Which meant that either it was determined to play a _really great_ game of hide-and-seek, or... (he really had to stop attributing human characteristics to non-human things) or else he hadn't put it on the desk at all.

Meaning that it was... God only knew where.

Probably not even God, come to think of it, could comprehend the machinations of a mad scientist's mind -- much in the same way that certain breeds of artist will, when asked what methods they used to produce such an effect, throw up their hands and exclaim that they don't know, it just _happened like that_.

He jerked his mind back to the subject at hand. Where was it?

He checked next to the bed. No. (Why would it be there, anyway?) Under the bed. No. (Dust bunnies, yes. They had established a _breeding colony_ under there, from the looks of it, and after apologizing for the intrusion, he hastily fled the scene.)

Under the desk?

Unsurprisingly, no.

In his sparsely-furnished, hardly-lived-in room, there was really nowhere else to look.

Which meant that he'd probably left it... somewhere in his lab. (Come to think of it... the more he considered that possibility, the more sense it made. It sounded like something he would do, and anyway what did he have to lose?)

Damn.

He'd have to go get it, then. (_Duh_, said an inner voice [that sounded remarkably like Jeb during his brief teenage phase], before shutting up to watch the show.)

The clothes he was wearing were, technically, clean (by some standards -- they weren't moving of their own accord), but common decency demanded that he at least have a shower before exposing himself to the public eye. (Such as it was at the School.) Probably a shave, too.

...When had his inner monologue started sounding like his mother?

Never mind that. There were more important dealings afoot.

Such as the matter of finding clean clothes. (Unwrinkled ones? He could worry about that later. Like if it were ever a priority, or if anyone ever gave a damn.)

Unfortunately, he was interrupted in this bold adventure by a knock at the door.

"Yes?" he said, belatedly noticing that his shirt was unbuttoned.

"Don't kill me," said a muffled voice.

"Normally people say 'Hello', or 'Jeb, I need to talk to you'," he said, going to unlock the door he _definitely_ didn't remember locking. "What is it?"

He cracked the door open a little, to be confronted by a somewhat rumpled-looking ter Borcht.

Somehow, Jeb was entirely unsurprised.

"You're not dead," ter Borcht said. (Jeb would have given quite a bit just to know _one person_ who actually said 'Hello' and 'How are you' and 'How's that weather', rather than jumping into conversations feet-first with blunt statements of what had gone wrong _this_ time.)

"This had better be good," Jeb muttered.

"That depends on whose point-of-view you're looking from," ter Borcht said, blazing new trails of making-very-little-sense.

"The last thing I remember before ten minutes ago is smoking my first cigarette in years," Jeb said. "Either tell me what happened after that or _go away._"

Ter Borcht looked vaguely disappointed at the thwarting of his philosophical train of thought. "No one's seen you since lunch -- you remember lunch, right?"

"Yes," Jeb said, clutching the edge of the door in a death grip (and very grateful that the door couldn't complain). "Sloppy Joe. Depression. Would I forget?"

"You seem to have given the most _interesting_ parts a total miss," ter Borcht said, with the air of someone temporarily distracted enough to say things they only meant to think. Distracted by _what_ -- who knew?

"Depends on whose point-of-view you're looking from," Jeb said smugly.

"It was two days ago. No one's seen you since then, and frankly, I'm glad you've come to your senses."

"Oh." Jeb paused. "Come to my senses?"

Ter Borcht smirked, and then abruptly thrust a small, familiar pill bottle at Jeb. "This is yours, I think."

Jeb took the pill bottle (the other course of action would have been to drop it, and he really didn't feel like going all the way down to the floor to retrieve the damn thing).

"You're welcome," ter Borcht said, then added, "Any time you want to button your shirt up is fine by me."

"Thanks," Jeb said, still a little too fuzzy-headed to really go in for a full-on glower, before shutting the door.

At which point another answer (to a question he hadn't asked -- how handy) politely tapped him on the shoulder.

You didn't just _snap out of_ a PBD-induced blackout like (presumably) the one Jeb had just suffered.

The only thing that ended one was... a dose of medication.

Jeb leaned back against the door, stunned.

The sensation of suddenly realizing the grandeur of a plan presented to you by someone else has been favorably compared to being whacked upside the head with a two-by-four.

And it was that feeling that had just assaulted Jeb, fangs bared and ready to attack.

"That devious bastard," Jeb said. "He spiked my coffee."

Of course, he worded it that way for the sheer purpose of dramatic effect.

There had been sleight-of-hand involving his beverage, but actually it had been a carton of 2-percent milk. Not coffee.

Honestly, though, which of those sounds better? Which is more dramatic?

Which makes a better end to Act One of the play?

Correct answer:

Whichever one is funniest.


	12. Answers Matching Questions

Chapter Twelve: Answers Matching Questions

It takes either stupidity or courage to muck around deceiving a mad scientist, and Jeb wasn't sure which he should accuse ter Borcht of first.

As far as stupidity went, yes, Jeb (sliding irreparably towards blackout as he had been) probably wouldn't have taken his medication even if prompted to -- getting him to take it without his knowledge was the only sure way of giving him a dose.

Even so, ter Borcht would have known from experience that it took more than one dose to immediately avert or stop an impending blackout. That, combined with the way Jeb's blackout had so abruptly ended, gave a little weight to his emerging hypothesis that ter Borcht had -- _cared_ enough (and he was loath to put it in such terms) to keep giving Jeb regularly-timed daily doses of medication.

God alone knew how he'd gotten Jeb to _take_ the medication, though -- good luck getting a mad scientist in a manic blackout to focus, even temporarily, on something other than work. He suspected that the solution involved _actually_ spiking his coffee -- certainly that would have been the easiest method, given the way he relied on coffee while he was working.

He had one thing to say in ter Borcht's favor, though: without his help, Jeb would still be lost. Maybe that was enough to redeem his actions?

Jeb sat down at his desk, and shuffled through the mess until he recovered the paper he was looking for. It was the list of questions he'd noted down to ask ter Borcht -- when? He frowned down at it. There was no date (he never remembered to put dates to things), but from his recollection, he'd written it yesterday morning.

Which meant that, if he could trust what ter Borcht said, he'd written this list... three days ago.

It looked so innocuous, though. Just a list of questions: _How?_ and _Why?_ being the two main ones. _How?_ had the most entries under it, but it was _Why?_ that he couldn't look away from.

Just one bullet point – bewitching in its simplicity.

_Why?_

_-(experiment -- hypothesis, methods),_ it read. Simple questions to answer, really; the same science he'd been dealing with since grade school.

The only difference was, in grade school, he hadn't been quite as closely linked to the problems.

Truthfully, this shouldn't be causing Jeb the trouble it was. He had already determined to keep his emotions firmly out of this. (Out of everything, in fact. He'd decided that years ago. Invariably it hurt too much.)

The paper only _asked_ why ter Borcht would even carry out the experiment.

It didn't mention the _other_ question of why; the one that had sunk roots in the deep heart of his psyche (like the periodic table and the chorus of "Hey Mickey", neither of which would leave, no matter how he tried -- and somehow he suspected he wouldn't want them gone), that sat smugly curled up in the middle of his head like an elephant in the room, that resisted distillation into any other form, that insisted on coiling tentacular, intruding vines into every awkward, inconvenient corner of his thoughts, that, in short, _possessed him_ like an evil spirit:

_Why did he choose me?_

And there was no getting around it -- that just wasn't a question Jeb could answer on his own.

The only thing for it was to actually _ask_ -- and even if he couldn't get up the nerve to ask why ter Borcht had chosen him, he could at least ask what in Christ's name had made it a good idea to consider spiking his coffee.

He sighed, resettled his glasses on his nose, and got up from his desk.

If that was all he could do, he might as well get it over with.

* * *

He didn't even get the gift of having time to sort out what he wanted to say; ter Borcht opened the door as soon as he knocked.

Jeb was still struggling to formulate a response when ter Borcht spoke.

"What is it?" he asked, rubbing the bridge of his nose with the side of his thumb.

"I just want to talk to you."

"Talk away," ter Borcht said.

Jeb hesitated for a moment. "Did you _know_ that I was slipping towards a blackout?"

Ter Borcht shrugged. "It was obvious. To me, at least."

"Then why didn't you _tell_ me?"

"You wouldn't have listened. At that stage, the best I could do was damage control."

" 'Damage control' like spiking my coffee? Doesn't sound very good to me."

Ter Borcht crossed his arms and looked away from Jeb. "All right, I concede that one -- spiking your drink wasn't the wisest course of action I could have taken. It seemed logical at the time, though. If that's all you came for," he added, "you can go ahead and leave now."

"I -- had another question," Jeb said.

"Go ahead and ask."

Jeb was prepared to ask something reasonable: what ter Borcht's exact methods had been.

To his surprise, he didn't.

"Why did you choose me?" he said.

Ter Borcht blinked and looked directly at him. "For what?"

"To --" Jeb found himself utterly bereft of dishonest words, unable to sidestep around his actual meaning, and so he blurted out, "To -- father your child. Why me?"

"Because I love you, Jeb," ter Borcht said simply.

True to form, Jeb ran.

* * *

Not literally, of course.

He found himself at the smoking area again, once the figurative dust had settled and he felt a little less panicky, more able to think clearly. It was nearing sunset, not mid-day, now, but other than that the scene remained essentially the same.

There was no one else there, this time.

Jeb liked it better that way.

He really would _not_ have been able to deal with even the small social niceties required to interact with another person at that moment.

He just needed... some time to think.

Yes. That sounded good.

He sat down on the bench. God, he was tired.

All right. Maybe being tired wasn't really his primary concern at the moment. (He had other things to focus on, after all.) It was just a method of dodging the real issue at hand.

Confessions of love weren't things Jeb had dealt with much, as a whole. So it was entirely sensible, when you looked at it that way, that he would have even less idea than usual what to do when confronted by that scenario.

Then again, none of this was sensible.

Not a bit of it.

He cradled his head in his hands. Why was this even bothering him so much? Jeb had no personal investment in this experiment. It wasn't his experiment, after all -- his part in the whole thing was just as an... _aide_ of sorts, an assistant whose job was to make sure that things happened more or less as they were supposed to.

It was not his job to care.

He had a duty, yes, to care about what ter Borcht was feeling. That was important.

So he cared about ter Borcht as the subject of an experiment. (_That_ was acceptable. _That_ he could deal with.)

Jeb _didn't_ care about ter Borcht _himself_.

And Marian Janssen was the Queen of England.


	13. That Boy Needs Therapy

Chapter Thirteen: That Boy Needs Therapy

Reilly had... well, not _always_, but for the year he'd been working there (officially), he'd been rather proud of the fact that, of all the employees at the School, he was quite possibly the most sane and well-balanced.

Of course, that was kind of like saying that, in the country of the blind, the nearsighted man had the best vision. He _did_, but that was really a vast oversimplification of the facts.

Given that, and adding in the fact that Reilly, somehow, had come out of high school and college with more social experience than any three of his coworkers put together, and the whole equation balanced out to reveal that Reilly was really in a rather nice position.

Of course, being relatively normal -- and having experience interacting with normal people -- meant that he had to play the role of unofficial psychologist and best-buddy to quite a few people.

Oh, it wasn't that he didn't _enjoy_ it -- he did a pretty good job for someone with no real professional training in that field -- but sometimes it got a little... weird.

Take Jeb Batchelder, for instance. Reilly had learned about him in college, and always thought of him as kind of a mythical figure -- kind of the way an English major would think about, say, J. D. Salinger, or someone else very, very famous and very, very inaccessible.

He'd never anticipated, even when he started working part-time at the School, that he'd get to _meet_ Jeb Batchelder, much less work with him.

And he certainly hadn't thought that someday he'd be sitting across a table from the _legendary_ Jeb Batchelder, having a _coffee _with him... and counseling him about his relationship problems. (Of which the poor bastard had many, you had to admit.)

"...so that's what happened," Jeb confessed, staring at the surface of his cup of coffee. He looked up at Reilly. "What do I do?"

Reilly was pretty outgoing, normally, but being called on for help always struck fear into his fundamentally introverted soul. But he pushed that aside, reminding himself that he _was_ here to _help_ Jeb. Which meant not just listening, but actually offering advice.

"This is going to sound like I'm being a douchebag," he began, "but... you need to stop being so fucking clueless. Jeb, are you listening?"

Jeb glanced up for a moment. "Yeah," he muttered, and returned his gaze to his coffee.

"Buy. A. Clue." Reilly sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He liked Jeb -- admired him -- loved him as a friend, but _damn_ if the man wasn't stupid from time to time.

"About what?"

God, Jeb was worse than the GM from his Dungeons and Dragons group in college -- the one he'd practically walked through Asking Girls Out On Dates 101. At least the GM had a vague grasp on reality.

Then again, the GM hadn't been also struggling with a mental disorder _and_ trying to come to grips with the fact that he was gay, so Reilly really had to give Jeb _some_ credit.

"Dude. You just need to get a fucking _grip_ and face the facts," Reilly said, trying his best to be gentle.

"What are the facts?" So typical for Jeb. Reilly hadn't even known him for all that long, and yet he knew to expect Jeb to focus on the analytical facts. Things he could quantify.

The man was almost cute, he had so much trouble dealing with emotions.

"The facts are... Argh!" Reilly stopped talking and sighed. "Let me try to put it in little words for you: ter Borcht -- _Dr. Roland ter Borcht_ -- is in love with you. And is waiting for you to get a clue."

"Oh." Jeb looked miserably at his coffee. Poor bastard. Reilly wanted to give him a hug.

Which made the situation _even weirder_, so he put it out of his mind for the time being.

"Was that _really_ all that hard?" Reilly asked.

Jeb nodded. "I'm... not good at asking for help," he explained to the tabletop.

"I kind of got that impression," Reilly said. "And it would be great if you'd make eye contact when you talked to people."

Jeb glanced up briefly. "I know. That's what my therapist tells me."

Reilly exhaled. "OK. Anything else you want to talk about?"

"No," Jeb said sharply. He took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes.

"Come on. I can help. And I'll keep it secret."

"You promise that?" Jeb asked, raising his gaze from the tabletop to make direct eye contact with Reilly.

"Of course."

"All right." Jeb stood up. "Come with me. I want to show you something."

For a moment, Reilly wondered exactly how he'd fallen so far down the rabbit hole that counseling someone who was, if not his hero, then someone he greatly admired, had become routine.

Then he pushed that thought aside, and got up to follow Jeb wherever he was going. Maybe he never knew what was going to happen next anymore, but he could always be sure it'd be either really cool or really dangerous.

And that was enough for him.

* * *

Normally it would have been hideously awkward to be surprise-invited into someone else's room on the spur of the moment, but... this was different.

For one thing, Jeb's room looked almost uninhabited. The bed had been slept in, and a binder was lying open on the floor, but there were no other evidences that someone _lived_ here. There was a faint smell of coffee, but other than that... it looked like no one had been there in weeks.

Until Reilly looked at the desk.

Oh man, that desk.

It wouldn't have been out of place in someone else's room or someone else's lab, but set against the rather austere background of Jeb's room, the battered desk with papers practically falling off the edges (and empty Styrofoam coffee cups clustered at random on top of it and on the floor around it) looked downright _surreal_.

Jeb walked over to the desk, and Reilly followed him, partially out of morbid curiosity.

"Mind your step," Jeb said absently, and flipped through the papers on the first layer. (Reilly guessed there were at least three layers to the collection on the desk. Probably more. After all, he'd seen this kind of aggregation of papers many times before. There were _always_ layers.)

"Here." Jeb extracted a sheet from the middle of the pile and showed it to Reilly. "Can you read that?"

"No," Reilly said, wondering if this was a test. It was clearly supposed to be English -- it looked like the Roman alphabet -- but if he quit concentrating on it it looked almost... Greek, maybe. Or kind of like kanji if you squinted.

"I can. Barely." Jeb started flicking through the papers again, and extracted another sheet. "This one?"

Equally unreadable.

"What are you trying to show me?"

"That's my handwriting," Jeb said softly, tapping the sheet of illegible scribbles with his finger. "But I don't remember writing it."

"That happens to a lot of people, especially when they don't get enough sleep," Reilly said. "Happened to me in college every time we had final exams."

"I'm a mad scientist, Reilly," Jeb said softly. "Normal people could shrug something like this off. Blame it on too much work and not enough sleep. But when someone like me starts losing his memory... it's an indicator of bad things to come."

He turned to face Reilly. "Tell me. What's one of the symptoms of worsening paranoid bipolar disorder?"

"Blackout -- similar to 'en bloc' blackouts caused by drinking. Sometimes milder, 'fragmentary' blackouts occur, but those are rare..." Reilly trailed off, trawling back through memory, trying to remember the notes he'd taken in college. "Sometimes worsens into a complete 'psychotic break', which are pretty typical of the worst cases of PBD... oh, Jeb, no."

Jeb nodded. "Yes."

"But obviously that didn't happen. What stopped it?"

"What stops any symptom of PBD?" Jeb said.

"Medication," Reilly responded automatically, then paused. "But... you left it in your lab, didn't you?"

"I guess Dr. ter Borcht knew that." Jeb laughed shakily and resettled his glasses on his nose. "He -- knew I wouldn't be persuaded to take it on my own."

"So he slipped it to you in your coffee," Reilly said, connecting the dots.

"That's what he implied, yes."

Reilly sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I guess you were right, then, with what you said a few days ago -- except you're not relapsing, you're getting _worse_."

"Exactly. It shouldn't have taken that long for the medication to have an effect."

"Do you think it's the medication itself, or your case getting worse?" Reilly asked.

"I don't know," Jeb said. "That's the troubling part."

"All right," Reilly said, and had to stop himself from running a hand through his hair again. "Why did you show me this?"

"Dr. ter Borcht is trusting me to ... personally keep an eye on his experiment. If I -- relapse, I can't do that." Jeb paused. "Would you -- would you be able to take over that responsibility? If I become incapable?"

"Yes," Reilly said. "And don't talk about it like it's a certainty. You don't _know_ that you're going to get worse."

"Yes, I do," Jeb said. "It has to get worse before it gets better."

"Oh, not necessarily," Reilly said, tone deliberately light. "This could already _be_ 'worse'."

"True," Jeb said, unsuccessfully suppressing a smile. "Thank you, Reilly. You've been very helpful."

"No problem, Dr. Batchelder," Reilly said, knowing full well that he was probably blushing like a twelve-year-old girl.

Jeb smiled. "Please just call me Jeb. 'Dr. Batchelder' sounds so _formal_."

"OK, Jeb," Reilly said. _Definitely_ blushing now -- he could feel his cheeks heating up. "That's it?"

"That's it," Jeb said.

"If you need to talk about something, come see me," Reilly added inanely.

"I'll keep that in mind."

"See you," Reilly said, and left.

God, was his life ever weird.


	14. Truth

Chapter Fourteen: Truth (Or Consequences)

Someone cleared his throat quietly.

Ter Borcht suspected he knew who it was, and glanced up from his newspaper to have his suspicion confirmed: Jeb Batchelder.

Who else would it be? (It wasn't like he'd been one of the most important researchers in human genetics for years or anything. Not as if anyone at one of the foremost biology labs in the world would be _remotely_ interested in his _work_.)

"Yes?" ter Borcht ventured.

"I just, um, need to run some tests -- since it's been a week -- I really don't mean to bother you," Jeb said, stumbling over his words in a way that made ter Borcht think he'd prepared at least five versions of that statement beforehand, and then forgotten all of them the second he started talking.

And was he _blushing_?

"It's not like I have anything better to do," ter Borccht said, and got up from his chair, folding the newspaper and leaving it on the table.

Yes, he decided, Jeb was definitely blushing.

That was odd.

"OK," Jeb said nervously as he keycarded them into the laboratory wing (why everything was on an intricate keycard system, rather than just normal keys and normal locks, ter Borcht just didn't understand, but he figured that it probably made sense on another level). "This won't take very long."

"I have all the time in the world," ter Borcht said, in an attempt at a joke.

He didn't understand the keycard system, but he was glad it existed -- Jeb's hands were shaking so badly as the door opened, he wouldn't have been able to turn a normal doorknob, had there been one.

As it was, Jeb almost jumped a foot in the air when they walked in and discovered Reilly already in the lab.

"Reilly!" Jeb said. "What are you doing here?"

"Sorry if I startled you, Dr. Batchelder," Reilly said, and shrugged. "I wanted to ask you some questions about Subject Eleven."

"Oh. Uh, can it wait just a minute?" Jeb gestured to ter Borcht. "I have some, uh, tests I need to run."

"Sure," Reilly said. "I'll go wait out in the hall."

Once he had left, Jeb turned back to ter Borcht and started talking, avoiding making actual eye contact. (Which seemed to be a problem he had, but ter Borcht wasn't about to bring it up and make him feel _more_ uncomfortable.)

"It's, um, the same kind of tests they did in Germany, so, uh, I think you know what to expect..."

"Of course I do," ter Borcht said, making a fair attempt at keeping the sarcastic note out of his voice. "I didn't spend four years in med school for nothing."

"Right," Jeb stammered. "Sorry."

"You don't have anything to apologize for," ter Borcht said, and then added, "If anything, I'm the one who should be apologizing. For dragging you into all this."

"Oh... I don't mind, really," Jeb said. "I need... something to keep my mind occupied, anyway."

"Then let's get to the tests," ter Borcht said.

Fate, however, was determined not to let them get away with that.

Jeb was, in fact, ready to begin when the door hissed open and Doctor Prescott entered, followed by Doctor Harrison (who, ter Borcht noticed, was wringing her hands) and a hovering, skittish-looking Reilly. Prescott, ter Borcht saw with growing unease, looked... triumphant.

Reilly hurried ahead of him to intercept ter Borcht, who had begun to make a tentative move forward to greet Prescott. He looked paler than usual, which made ter Borcht wonder just what was going on to make _Reilly_ nervous.

"This won't be pretty," Reilly whispered, retreating away from Prescott and Harrison, taking ter Borcht with him. "You might want to hide."

Ter Borcht couldn't quite tell if he was joking or not.

"Dr. Batchelder," Prescott said warmly. "I hope I'm not -- interrupting anything?" His eyes flicked over to Reilly and ter Borcht, unwilling witnesses to... whatever was about to happen here.

"I was just about to start some -- tests -- on Dr. ter Borcht," Jeb said.

Prescott moved a little, putting himself between Jeb and the door (which ter Borcht saw was still open -- no one had remembered to keycard it shut). "I just wanted to congratulate you."

"For what?" Jeb said warily.

"Your son -- Ari --"

"What about him? Where is he?" Jeb interrupted.

"He's _fine_, Dr. Batchelder," Prescott said.

"What have you done to him?" Jeb looked like he was barely restraining himself from physically assaulting Prescott.

"He's just finished his last round of post-natal genetic recombination therapy," Prescott said. "Congratulations. The first human trials are officially a success."

"No," Jeb said, almost inaudibly.

"You signed the waiver," Harrison said ineffectively.

"No," Jeb said.

"You should be honored," Prescott said, smiling.

"No!" Jeb said. "He was my _son_!" he screamed, lunging forward towards Prescott.

"Jeb, calm down," Harrison said, holding him back.

"He's still your son, Dr. Batchelder," Prescott said. "He's just... _changed_ a little."

"No!" Jeb struggled to pull away from Harrison.

"Jeb, get a hold of yourself," she said coldly.

He stared at her with dully manic eyes.

"You're overreacting, Dr. Batchelder," said Prescott. "He's still very much alive."

"You won't be able to see him until you calm down, Jeb," Harrison said.

All the fight went out of Jeb, and ter Borcht saw how worn-down he was.

"I'm -- I --" he said, then wrenched his arm out of Harrison's grip and left.

With Jeb gone, the building tension in the air fizzled out. Neither Prescott nor Harrison had any reason to stay, and after a moment, they both left, too.

Reilly grinned weakly at ter Borcht. "Told you you'd want to hide."

Ter Borcht glanced down at his hands, still gripping the countertop. They were shaking. "I've never seen him angry before."

"Me either." Reilly paused. "You feeling all right?"

"I'm fine," ter Borcht said automatically.

"You don't look so good. Really. You doing OK?"

"I'm _fine_," ter Borcht said, and forced a smile.

"OK, be that way," Reilly said, smiling back. "Look, I have some stuff to do for Dr. Prescott. Take care of yourself."

And ter Borcht was left alone to consider Jeb's stunning display of anger and anguish.

He sighed. Yes, he hated to interfere in other people's business, but it was rapidly becoming apparent that Jeb needed his help. The man had been floundering in denial for long enough. And this incident with his son might be enough to tip him back over the edge into full-blown insanity.

Which frankly wasn't something ter Borcht cared to watch.

The least he could do was go after Jeb and offer some kind of condolence. Give him what help he could.

And that left nothing for it but to go find him.

Luckily, ter Borcht had an idea of where he'd be.

* * *

Jeb was exactly where ter Borcht had expected him to be -- sitting in the smoking area. (He was so predictable.) His glasses were folded neatly, lying next to him on the bench, and his shoulders were trembling.

When he heard ter Borcht coming, he turned away and swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Hello, Roland," he said, and smiled crookedly.

"Mind if I sit down?"

"Uh-uh." Jeb shook his head and looked away from ter Borcht, out into the desert. He drew in a shaky breath. "Ari was... all I had left of Connie," he said.

"Connie?" ter Borcht asked.

"My wife. She was his mother." Jeb glanced at ter Borcht, long enough for ter Borcht to notice that his eyes were bloodshot and teary. "There was a... car accident. A few weeks after he was born."

He spoke carefully, picking his words one at a time, as if he were reading them off the clouds. "I... When I..." He rubbed his eyes with his hands. "What I'm trying to say is. I spent two years away. For an experiment. Prescott didn't know."

"He thought you left." Ter Borcht understood what Jeb was trying to say.

"He tried to take my _son_ from me." Jeb looked off at the horizon. "He..." He trailed off. "I..."

Ter Borcht said nothing.

"I'm sorry," Jeb said.

"You don't have to be."

He looked at ter Borcht, like he were shocked someone could have the temerity to tell him that he had no reason to feel guilt.

"You have nothing to apologize for," ter Borcht said, and then added, "Even if you did, I wouldn't love you any less."

"Oh," Jeb said, and then stopped. "I... I think..." he said hesitantly. "I've been thinking about this for a while, and..."

Ter Borcht didn't want to spoil the moment, so rather than speak, he put his arm around Jeb's shoulders.

God, why did he feel so fragile?

"I love you, Roland," he said.

"Come here." Ter Borcht put his other arm around Jeb.

In his arms, Jeb was warm and silent, shaking with the effort of forcing down his sobs.

It felt _right_ to have him so close -- as if ter Borcht had finally discovered the solution to a problem he hadn't known he had.

He was used to disregarding emotion, mostly -- he had grown used to judging based on solid facts _only_. Data he could trust. Emotion was unreliable.

But all methods of problem-solving failed, eventually. And sometimes they were downright inapplicable.

So he gave in, followed his heart (if only for this once), and just kissed him.

Tentatively, Jeb kissed back.


	15. Sweet Emotion

Chapter Fifteen: Sweet Emotion

Roland pulled away a little, and for a moment Jeb thought he had done something wrong, that now someone _else_ was going to leave him.

But Roland didn't leave, just brought his hand up to Jeb's face and gently wiped away his tears.

He felt, for the first time in -- he couldn't remember how long -- at peace. As if he could finally let his guard down... not that he already hadn't.

As Roland moved his hand down to rest on the back of Jeb's neck (slowly enough that it made him shiver), Jeb leaned in closer to him, wanting to feel someone else's presence -- wanting to know that someone _cared_.

And Roland didn't move away -- he stayed right where he was, holding Jeb in his arms, keeping him from falling. He felt... _vertiginous _(a word his roommate had taught him, in exchange for theorems of angles), as if he had been balanced on the edge of a cliff, and Roland had pulled him away.

He rested his head on Roland's shoulder, comforted by the raw _reality_ of him, the fact that he was _here_. "Don't leave me," Jeb whispered.

"Why do you think I would?"

"Because... that's what always happens." He closed his eyes, not willing to face the inevitable reaction.

"Maybe it wasn't your fault." Jeb could feel Roland speaking, and for a moment he almost forgot to listen to what he was saying. "And maybe I can break that pattern."

Jeb opened his eyes, surprised that someone could be that... _devoted_ to him. That someone could care enough to want to help him -- or to know that he needed help in the first place. Yes, it was satisfying to be regarded so highly by his colleagues -- but being thought of as superhuman had its downfalls. He had gotten used to not showing any weakness... and that, in the end, had gotten him here.

Maybe here wasn't such a bad place to be, though.

Roland was here, for one thing.

"I'll try, anyway," he continued, breath stirring in Jeb's hair. "For you. You know I want you to be happy, right?"

"Really?" He didn't believe what he was hearing. He wanted to, but he didn't _quite_ believe it.

"Really. I hate seeing you depressed like this." He kissed the top of Jeb's head.

"No one's ever said that to me before," Jeb murmured.

"That's sad." He moved his thumb in slow circles on Jeb's neck. "I like you when you're happy -- you have a beautiful smile, has anyone ever told you that?"

"Never." Jeb shivered a little. Did Roland know what that _did_ to him?

"Maybe that's because you never let anyone see it."

Yes, Jeb decided, he did.

"I'm not supposed to be that vulnerable," he said.

"Vulnerable? Showing happiness is _vulnerable_?"

"I'm supposed to be this... 'great scientist'," he said, making a solid effort at ignoring Roland's distracting, reassuring hand on his neck. "Ask Reilly what he learned about me in college -- I'm 'the greatest geneticist in history', according to his professors. And everyone else thinks that too, even here. It's impossible for me to be who they think I am. I can't do it. No one could."

Normally he never would have admitted all of that, but somehow this was different.

"Well, you know... not _everyone_ thinks you're superhuman," Roland said. "Not _everyone_ looks at you and just sees your work."

"What do you see?" he said, taking his head off Roland's shoulder and sitting up. "When you look at me?"

"When I look at you, I see..." Roland smiled. "That you have a beautiful smile." He brought his hand up from Jeb's neck to brush the pad of his thumb against his lips, then moved up to trace semicircles under each of his eyes. "I see the look you get in your eyes when you're thinking about something." He cupped the side of Jeb's face in his hand. "I see a man who's more stunningly complex than people give him credit for -- someone who's so much more than just his work, as elegant as it is. When I look at you," he said, "I see someone I love more than anything in the world." His smile returned. "What do you see?"

"When I look at you?" Jeb asked.

"Yes. When you look at me, what do _you_ see?" Roland moved his hand back down to Jeb's neck, and he suppressed a shiver.

"I'm afraid I can't measure up to _that_," he said, feeling a smile creep carefully onto his face.

"You don't have to. Just try."

"I... you just make me feel all the most ridiculous, illogical, amazing things," Jeb said, feeling quite foolish. He had never been cut out for poetry (although admittedly he really hadn't tried), and had been pretty sure he wasn't cut out for love either -- well, until right now, that was. (And he still wasn't terribly solid on that conclusion, though the amount of data supporting it was growing every second.) "I don't know where to _begin._"

"That's all right," Roland said, smiling, and Jeb understood what authors meant when they wrote _Her heart was bursting with emotion_, because all of a sudden he felt overwhelmed by happiness, and it _did_ feel as if his heart was full to bursting with emotions spilling messily over at the seams.

So where usually he would have at least made a concession to reason and attempted to respond in a coherent manner, he instead leaned forward and kissed Roland, who made a small noise of pleasant surprise, on the cheek.

"You know," he said, unjustifiedly breathless as he pulled away a little, "I've never felt quite like this before. I thought maybe there was something wrong with me -- that maybe I was doing something wrong, or that I didn't know how to love."

"I've been down that road before," Roland said. "Trust me. There's nothing wrong with you."

Jeb laughed. "I'm used to telling _other_ people to trust me -- I think I like this better."

"Good." He stroked the side of Jeb's neck with his thumb, tracing a circle again. "Do you want to know the other thing I see in you?"

"Yes."

"This is going to sound absolutely ridiculous," he said.

"Then don't say it," Jeb said.

"No, I want you to hear it." He paused, clearly trying to collect his thoughts. "When I look at you..."

"Yes?"

"When I look at you, I see far more than just the sum of your parts -- I see someone who manages to be confusing and beautiful at the same time, though I don't know how he does it. Someone I care deeply for, who I never want to leave. Jeb," he said, "when I said that I hate seeing you depressed, I was serious -- I know what it feels like, and I wouldn't wish it on anyone, much less you."

He had clearly not finished saying _half_ of what he had planned to say, but Jeb knew what he was getting at, and so he leaned forward and whispered in Roland's ear.

"When I look at you, I see the same thing."

And before Roland could say another word, Jeb finally took the initiative and kissed him.

He could really get used to this whole "being happy" thing.


	16. When I'm Lying Awake At Night

Chapter Sixteen: When I'm Lying Awake At Night

It was rather telling, the way he even looked tired when he was sleeping.

Or even the way he looked _younger_ when he was asleep -- when he didn't have to constantly be on alert, he looked like the man ter Borcht had met fifteen years ago once more, someone young and bright and full of life.

He had fallen asleep practically the moment ter Borcht got him back to his room -- and ter Borcht didn't blame him for it. From his appearance (and the deserted, austere look of his room) he hadn't slept for a full night in weeks.

He needed the rest -- he could only push his body so far beyond the limits of human tolerance before it gave in and forced him to acquiesce to its demands.

Ter Borcht knew that from his own experience. It was only logical that it should apply to Jeb too.

There were those who would have disagreed about that -- the usual crowd of academics that gathers around anyone prominent in their field would have, for instance. In Jeb's case, they would have contested that he was extraordinarily dedicated to his work, and still somehow managed to work in time for sleep and a family on the side. (Remarkable. Give the man an award.)

Which wasn't true, by any means. Oh, he was dedicated, all right -- ter Borcht had seen that firsthand -- but he only seemed to sleep when it was absolutely necessary, and he no longer really _had_ a family. He had a son.

_Had_ a son, ter Borcht reminded himself.

For better or worse (likely worse, he thought), Jeb considered himself to be alone in the world now. He seemed to be slowly coming to grips with the fact that he _wasn't_ (he had ter Borcht, after all, as well as their child), though, which was... good. Healthy, at least.

He was still a fair ways from being the superman his reputation made him out to be -- at least, according to Reilly's reports of what his college textbooks had said on the topic of Batchelder, Dr. Jacob F. (Out of curiosity, ter Borcht had asked Reilly whether _he_ had figured into those textbooks. Reilly had admitted he didn't really remember.)

Ter Borcht _knew_ that Jeb wasn't superhuman -- for one thing, if he were, he wouldn't have asked ter Borcht to stay with him. Jeb had been practically falling asleep anyway by the time he made it back to his room, and before ter Borcht had been able to make a graceful exit, Jeb had stayed awake long enough to plead for him to stay.

There was no way ter Borcht could have turned him down without feeling terrible about it, and besides, he wanted to make sure Jeb was actually sleeping, not just lying awake.

He was asleep, all right -- had been unconscious before ter Borcht could even turn out the light (testament to just how exhausted he must have been). He wouldn't even know if ter Borcht left -- and somehow he couldn't bring himself to leave anyway.

He looked so peaceful, and ter Borcht didn't want to risk waking him by leaving -- that, and ter Borcht wanted, somewhat irrationally, to protect him. Mad scientists tended to be more susceptible to night terrors than most adults, and what the hell was he talking about, he just didn't want to leave Jeb while he was like this.

Ter Borcht, after all, had firsthand experience with the crushing depression that came part and parcel with PBD -- that was bad enough, but when coupled with the loss of a _son_... though ter Borcht himself had only brushed briefly up against the brink of despair before he was diagnosed, he'd seen colleagues of his attempt suicide while under the sway of a severe depressive episode, and he knew that it was a definite risk for Jeb right now.

And although the light coming in through the window was dim, ter Borcht could see old faded scars high up on Jeb's arms, high enough that they would be hidden under his shirtsleeves, and faded so much by time that they could be explained away with any of a thousand creative stories. If he hadn't been... well, _expecting_ to see them, he wouldn't have seen them at all -- or at least he wouldn't have guessed their origin.

Self-injury was a regrettably common coping method among people with PBD, after all -- just as caffeine and nicotine saw frequent use among those who didn't believe in taking their medication, self-harm was common among mad scientists during a depressive episode. (Usually it took disturbingly creative forms, too -- all that mattered to the mad scientist was that he felt the pain he felt he _deserved_ to feel, or the pain that made him feel _alive_. Not what method he used to get there -- to him, that was immaterial.)

Ter Borcht would have been surprised if Jeb _hadn't_ self-harmed at some point in his past -- would have been downright alarmed and worried if he had forcefully denied it (which would indicate that he _had_ self-harmed, and wasn't willing to admit to it, which was a dangerous situation for him to be in).

As it was, though seeing those old scars hurt ter Borcht's heart a little (_no one_, he thought, _should have to feel that way about himself -- especially not him_), he knew that he really couldn't afford to grieve for Jeb's old sins _now_. There would be a time for that someday, but for now -- ter Borcht's main concern was Jeb's _current_ health.

To be honest, Jeb's current health wasn't the best in the world -- it was downright dismal. He was sleeping, and that would help him a little on the road back to (relative) normalcy, but the fact remained that ter Borcht couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Jeb eat, and _that_ was a bad sign.

True, ter Borcht should be more worried about his own health at the moment, but somehow Jeb's health superseded his own in the list of things that were important at the moment -- even though it was irrational, ter Borcht _cared_ more about Jeb than about himself.

And it _was_ irrational -- ter Borcht knew the risks he'd taken by agreeing to be the host for the artificial womb. He was quite aware of the substantial possibility that he would die, if not actually on the operating table, then at some point after the birth from hemorrhaging -- and yet he _didn't care_ about any of that.

Because Jeb was in danger.

Oh, he was tempted to declare that hyperbole and therefore an invalid conclusion, but Jeb _was_ in danger. Perhaps not danger as substantial as the fact that ter Borcht very well might have months left to live, instead of the years he could have reasonably expected, but tangible danger in any case.

Jeb mumbled something in his sleep, and ter Borcht glanced over at him. He _looked_ fine from the outside -- but, well, who could tell what was going on inside his head?

His hand clenched around a corner of the sheet, and he mumbled something inaudible -- a name, maybe? -- into the pillow before making a noise ter Borcht realized he really shouldn't recognize: the choked and voiceless scream of a man trapped in a nightmare.

Jeb mumbled again, and this time ter Borcht caught what he was saying before he screamed again: _Max._

_Where are you, Max?_

Then his eyes snapped open, blurred over with sleep and fear, and ter Borcht abandoned any thoughts he had over who in the fuck Max was, replacing them with more immediate problems.

"Jeb, it's me," he said.

"Roland?" Jeb said fuzzily, then rubbed at his eyes. "What are you..." He paused, then interrupted himself. "Is Max all right?"

"Yes," ter Borcht said. "What was happening?"

"There was a fire," Jeb said, now waking up a little more. "I couldn't find her."

He blinked, and kept his eyes shut for a moment before reopening them. "Oh..." he said, rather sheepishly. "I -- I'm sorry."

"No, it's all right."

"Sometimes I just have dreams," Jeb said, fumbling to find his glasses (apparently convinced that because it was dark out and he was awake he needed to get out of bed and to work). "Nightmares really. Nothing to worry about."

"You were screaming," ter Borcht said.

Jeb shot him a glare from under half-closed eyelids. "That happens sometimes."

"It's not normal."

"How do you know it's not?" Jeb retorted, still in the process of waking up, but a little closer to traditional coherence. He squinted at ter Borcht. "Were you... watching me sleep?"

"You asked me to stay."

"No, I didn't," Jeb said obstinately. "Did I?"

"Yes, you did."

Jeb rubbed at his eyes again. "Thanks for staying, then." He glanced over at the far wall, away from ter Borcht. "Sometimes the nightmares get... pretty bad."

"This one sounded 'pretty bad'."

Jeb sat up straighter in bed. "There was a fire in the house, and I couldn't find Max," he said. "No matter where I looked."

"Are your nightmares always like that?"

"Sometimes," Jeb said, looking at ter Borcht suspiciously. "What time is it?"

"Far too late," ter Borcht said. "And you've worked enough lately. You need to sleep."

"All right." He yawned. "I guess I can do that." He closed his eyes and lay back down.

"You'll work better after you've slept," ter Borcht said, feeling rather unhelpful.

"Uh-huh." Jeb drew the sheet back over himself, practically up to his chin.

"Really."

"Didn't say I doubted you." Jeb opened one eye. "Don't go anywhere, OK?"

"I'll stay," ter Borcht promised.

"Good. Just... y'know, just in case." Jeb closed his eye again.

"I know," he said, resigning himself to a sleepless night of introspection.

He could do it, though. If that was what Jeb needed him to do... he'd find a way.


	17. Good Morning

Chapter Seventeen: Good Morning

"Morning, Reilly," Jeb said.

"Well, aren't you just the brightest little ray of sunshine this morning?" Reilly said, and then added suspiciously, "Are you on drugs?"

"Yes, and no, respectively," Jeb said cheerily. "At least not the fun ones; they interact with my medication."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Reilly said, waving his hand absently. "Is there a _reason_ you're alive this morning?"

"I'm not dead." Jeb set his coffee mug down on the table, and then folded himself onto the bench. (Just like the food, institutional tables never changed -- no one had ever looked graceful taking a seat at one, and no one ever would.)

"Well, obviously. You wouldn't _be_ here if you were dead." Reilly squinted at him, trying to compose a workable hypothesis that would explain just _why_ Jeb was awake and functioning at eight o' clock in the morning. "I mean, like..."

"What's new?"

Reilly blinked. "Uh, I guess."

"For a given value of 'new', not much." Jeb shrugged and stirred his coffee.

Reilly would have just passed it off as there genuinely not being anything Jeb wanted to talk about... if he hadn't been smiling.

"Why are you smiling?" he asked warily.

"What, is it illegal to be happy?"

Now, in a fair world, Reilly would have had a moment to think.

But, as his high school teachers had often reminded him, life wasn't fair, and so it was at that moment that ter Borcht staggered into the cafeteria, looking like hell on legs.

Reilly glanced at ter Borcht for a moment, and then back at Jeb. Sleep-deprived. Cheerful.

Sure, those were adjectives he was used to applying to them -- just not in that _order._

_Huh, that's weird,_ said the sensible part of his brain, before doing the right thing and shutting up entirely -- the School just wasn't a thing subject to the laws of conventional logic, especially when it came to the matter of Jeb and ter Borcht (who weren't subject to the laws of logic in any case -- and maybe _that_ implied that they _would_ be subject to the laws of logic -- and _Fuck it_, said the sensible part of his brain, retrieving the emergency bottle of vodka from behind the Christmas-themed glasses in the cupboard).

"The legislation just passed this morning," Reilly said.

"Ah. Well, that's no good then." Jeb sipped his coffee. "So you're feeling all right?"

"It's eight o' clock in the morning," Reilly said, stubbornly not saying anything stunningly tactless. (He'd always been good at staying on the right side of sensitivity, but somehow the tendency for directness endemic to the School had claimed another victim in him. He was surprised it had taken so long.) "No one _sane_ is fully awake yet."

"Of course not," Jeb said. "There's no one _sane_ in a fifteen-mile radius of here."

"Makes sense considering there's fuckall except desert for at least fifteen miles no matter which way you go," Reilly said.

"Makes sense considering that town is twenty-five kilometers from here," ter Borcht said, making expert use of that bizarre talent of the mad scientist: appearing out of _fucking nowhere._

"How do you people _do_ that?" Reilly said, shaking his head.

"Do what?" ter Borcht said innocently.

"That thing!" Reilly tapped his fingers on the table, then decided that at the stage of sleep deprivation he was in it just wouldn't be worth it to try and explain. "Never mind."

"Have you been getting enough sleep lately?" Jeb asked.

"Yeah, like you're qualified to ask, Mr. 'I'll-Sleep-When-I'm-Dead'," Reilly muttered. "And why is it suddenly your business, anyway?"

"It's not, really," Jeb said thoughtfully. "It's like the oldie about the polar bear."

"What one?"

"How much does a polar bear weigh?" Jeb paused. "Enough to break the ice."

"I'm the designated smartass here," Reilly said. "Don't you go stealing my lines."

"I'm not."

Reilly glanced up from moodily contemplating the table... and, sure enough, ter Borcht had vanished as quietly as he'd appeared. "I'll never understand you people."

Instead of saying anything, Jeb politely sipped his coffee.

"OK, what's going on?" Reilly demanded.

"What do you mean, what's going on?" Jeb glanced up at him. (He had long eyelashes, Reilly noticed -- even though it was an irrational thing to think about _Jeb goddamn Batchelder_, it made sense, given that the part of his brain capable of thinking it irrational in the first place was currently passed out under the table.)

"You're awake and functional at eight o' clock in the morning. You're _smiling_. Something," Reilly said confidently, "is going on."

"Like what?" Jeb smiled. "What do you think is going on?"

"This is a test, isn't it?" Reilly said.

"No, no, no. No wrong answers. Just tell me what you think."

"That's what all my English teachers used to say, _right_ before they flunked me," Reilly said.

"You should have picked another class to sleep through."

"Hilarious." Reilly paused. "I don't know what's going on -- I just know that something's up."

Jeb stayed silent.

"Look, will you just _tell_ me?" Reilly said.

"Not in here."

Well, at least it was progress, Reilly thought ruefully as Jeb dragged him outside. He just had to keep that in mind.

* * *

As soon as they were outside, Reilly saw a definite change in Jeb's demeanor -- his shoulders relaxed and he stopped looking around like he was expecting the FBI to pop out from behind every corner.

Reilly didn't blame him. The cafeteria was _oppressive_, even when you set it side-by-side with the _desert._ Which was saying something.

"You were there when -- when Prescott --" Jeb stopped, obviously not knowing how to say what he wanted to say.

"Yeah, I was there," Reilly said.

"I came out here to -- think a little. After that," Jeb said. "Roland followed me outside, and we... talked for a while. He, uh." Jeb glanced away from Reilly. "He kissed me."

"Oh." Reilly couldn't think of anything to _say_, damn it. "So you finally figured out -- how you feel about him?"

"Yes," Jeb said simply, and then added, "I'm in love with him."

Reilly smiled (and couldn't quite suppress a _stunningly_ irrational, fleeting sense of disappointment). "Guess you found the answers you were looking for, then," he said.

Jeb sighed. "I guess I did."


	18. A Bad Case of Maid and Butler

Chapter Eighteen: A Bad Case of Maid and Butler

There's a certain kind of quasi-precognition that allows us to know when we're mentioned in a conversation -- a handy little skill that lets us know heads-up, stop zoning out, someone's talking to you.

This trait proved its usefulness and prevented Reilly from looking like more of an idiot than he already was. (Maybe he should stop zoning out during breakfast. Kyle, the programmer he had the... pleasure of eating with, was starting to get suspicious of the way Reilly answered even simple questions with noncommittal noises.)

"Hey, Reilly. You're working with him. What's up with Batchelder lately?"

Reilly looked up from his oatmeal. "What? Oh. Can't tell you. Patient confidentiality and all that."

"Patient confidentiality my ass. You're not a doctor."

"Not _yet._ I'm like his therapist, cut me some slack." So what if he wasn't a doctor? He was still committed to _trying_ to help Jeb -- which extended to helping him keep his secrets, if he wanted them to stay secrets.

Reilly was pretty sure that didn't make a terrible lot of sense, but he let it slide in favor of paying attention. Who knew? It might be a good habit in future.

"Jim says he saw Batchelder kissing that German guy."

"Who, Jim Morrison?" Which was one of Reilly's fallback lines. _Why_ did he know so many Jims? (Jim's? Jims, he decided.)

"Yeah, of course Jim Morrison." Kyle rolled his eyes. "No, dickweed, Jim _McKnight_."

"And by 'that German guy' do you mean Dr. ter Borcht?"

"Are you _slow_ or something? How many fucking Germans do we _have_ here?" Kyle toyed with his pen. "Fucking of course that ter Borcht guy. Who the fuck else would it _be_?"

"Kyle, you're the one who told _me_ ' "fuck" is not a comma and' I 'shouldn't use it like it is'."

"Well, I was wrong. That and it's too early."

"This is not early. And try sleeping. It makes you feel less tired."

"No shit, Sherlock. I just need more coffee."

"Temporary solution."

"I'll sleep when I'm dead."

"That's what they all say." Reilly paused. "So where did Jim say he saw this?"

"Smoking area a couple of days ago. Go figure. Batchelder doesn't even _smoke_."

"He used to."

"How would you know that? Was it in your textbooks?"

"Quit ragging on about the damn textbooks, I swear to God he's _really_ in there. I'll show you if you don't shut up." Reilly rubbed a grain of sleep out of his eye. "As to how I know -- Truth or Dare."

"Truth. Oh, wait."

"You're a comic genius, Kyle."

"Damn straight I am."

"Did Jim say why?"

"Why he was watching? He was in the staff lounge getting a cup of coffee. Wrong place, wrong time."

"No, like, why they were making out in front of God and everybody." Reilly had always prided himself on his (admittedly rather minimal) acting skills. And now he was finally getting a chance to put them to use -- _Suck it, Mrs. McCall, I did make something of myself_, he thought, _even if I couldn't remember my lines. I liked improv better anyway._

"It's not like he fu -- _fricking_ asked, dude."

"Swear jar."

"Not real cursing. And we don't even _have_ a swear jar, man."

"We should. So I could make you give up your spare change every other sentence."

"Just buy me a hooker. We're not even all that far from Nevada."

"Dude, how does that even relate?"

"Shut up, it's art."

"What, performance art? My Theatre One teacher in high school would flunk you on the spot for improv this boring."

"Welcome to the real world, Reilly," Kyle said dryly. "It's rather boring."

"Why would you do that?" Reilly said.

"Be boring? It amuses me. Dance, puppets, dance."

"No, like, the making out part. Work on your attention span."

"Don't fucking ask me that, I don't know. _You're_ his _therapist_, go _ask_ him."

"Fuck no."

"Why not? You chicken?" And to complete the fourth-grade insult, Kyle made chicken noises.

"No. He's busy. And I have shit to do for Dr. Prescott."

"Oh, right. You have a _job_." Kyle snorted.

"So do you."

"My point exactly. Except my job's cooler."

"My job's way better than yours, man. Like, infinitely better. How many fucking battle scars do _you_ have from_ your_ job?"

"You're the one who told me not to curse."

"Invalid. How many battle scars, Kyle?"

"None. But dude. You, like, actually have to be awake at a certain time to do your job."

"So do you."

"Nah man, as long as I get what they want done in the timeframe they want it in, I set my own hours. It's all right."

"You don't have the world's nuttiest coworkers."

"Oh, that's _right_, you work with all those mad scientist nutjobs, don't you?"

"Sure do."

Kyle looked like he was about to say something, and then changed his mind. "Dude, if you want to know something, just go ask."

"I can't believe _you're_ giving _me_ advice on something."

"Yeah, I know, cue apocalypse. But, like... dude, just ask."

"And then come tell you?"

"Yeah, that's my ulterior motive. I'm so transparent."

Reilly smirked, then laughed. "Dude. You have the world's best poker face."

"Thanks. All I can play is solitaire."

"Figures."

"Go thou and ask, nerd lad."

"Call me that again and I'll kick your ass," Reilly said.

"Like hell you will. Go ask."

"Fine. I'll go ask, and I'll get an answer pertaining to oysters. That'll show you."

"Either way, I enjoy myself."

"Good point." Reilly glanced down. "Thanks, Kyle. My oatmeal's all cold and congeal-y."

"Your own fault."

"Damn you and your subtle tricks." Reilly got up from the table.

* * *

As Reilly had predicted, Jeb was busy. Or so said the sign on his lab door, anyway -- well, all right, the sign didn't say "Busy, come back later" like the terse, polite sign Dr. Prescott would put on _his_ door when he was working on something important, it said "WARNING: SCIENCE" -- but the point of it was the same: Jeb was not to be disturbed. (Unless you felt like incurring grievous bodily injury.)

That left Reilly with one choice: asking the other person involved.

Which left him with the task of hunting down ter Borcht and interrogating him (fun times, as Kyle would probably put it).

Fate was, again, determined not to let Reilly off easy -- for some reason rather than let Reilly look for ter Borcht and not find him, it decided that it would be most pertinent to its interests to let him find ter Borcht in the first place he looked.

"Reilly?" Ter Borcht looked at him suspiciously, and Reilly read his actual meaning right out of his eyes: _What are you doing here_?

"Uh, yeah. Hi." Oh, shit. He didn't even have a decent justification for why he was here. Or even a terrible justification. "What're you doing?"

"Being bored out of my skull."

"Maybe you should take up knitting?"

"Not my kind of thing."

"Didn't think so. Ever played Tetris?"

"Doesn't ring a bell."

Ter Borcht was leaning against the doorframe, and Reilly peered past him into his room. It wasn't like he was a _creeper_ or anything, the door was _open_ and everything... aw, who was he kidding.

It was kind of a creepyass room. To be honest. Well, maybe Reilly wasn't such a great judge of creepy, but it kind of gave him the weirds.

And he couldn't figure out exactly why it creeped him out.

Maybe it was that there wasn't anything strewn around on the floor. The mad scientists Reilly had known (all right, so he hadn't known all that many, but he knew enough to make an educated generalization) tended to be a little scatterbrained, and the state of their desks (or rooms) tended to reflect that: things scattered everywhere.

Ter Borcht's room must, Reilly decided, be the exception that proved that rule. The suitcase leaned up against the dresser was really the only proof that there was someone _living_ there.

"Did you want to ask something, or are you too busy checking out my room?"

"Uh, I kind of had a question."

"I have answers."

To be rather cliché: Reilly's spider-sense was tingling.

Except it wasn't detecting "speeding-car" types of danger, it was detecting "well, that's funny" types of danger -- interestingly, the kind that often lead to important scientific discoveries, but he rather doubted that was what was going to happen here -- and those types of danger seemed to be concentrated around ter Borcht.

Weird.

"Why did you..." Reilly trailed off. _Damn_ it. Normally he could have at least made something up on the spot.

"Kiss him?" Ter Borcht raised an eyebrow. "Because I love him, and I wanted him to know that. If you want poetry, I'm afraid you'll have to find someone else."

Something was definitely fishy here.

Reilly just couldn't figure out _what_.

"Actually I was going to ask why you used yourself as a test subject," Reilly said. _Nice save, self._

"Seems like a rather odd question to ask."

"It's a rational one."

"And didn't I already talk to you about that? When Dr. Prescott -- interrogated me?"

"No, you didn't mention it." Actually he had, but Reilly hadn't been paying very good attention.

"Very well then." Ter Borcht sighed. "The artificial womb we constructed is rather delicate -- it relies on an outside blood supply to remain alive. We were anticipating that we'd have more time to find a host, but it finished growing earlier than we'd thought it would, and I was called into service as a subject."

"Why not the Director?"

"Personal health reasons."

"And when you were talking with Dr. Prescott, you mentioned the _embryo's_ stability as a major concern."

"Yes, I did. They're both rather delicate."

"Uh-huh," Reilly said skeptically.

"If that's all..."

"Yeah." Reilly checked his watch. "Dr. Prescott said he wanted me in his lab by ten," he lied. "I'd better get going if I want to be on time."

"Good idea. Punctuality is a virtue."

"I'll talk to you later, Dr. ter Borcht."

"Later."

Ter Borcht shut the door.

Reilly took a moment to think.

Something was _definitely_ fishy in Denmark. Nothing seemed to add up about any of this; Jeb was acting weird, everyone and his dog seemed to know that Jeb had kissed ter Borcht, and hell, even ter Borcht was acting weird.

As much as Reilly hated to admit it... he needed another perspective on all this.

Preferably one from someone who would have no idea what was going on.

Which basically left Kyle.

Fuck.


	19. Chitchat

Chapter Nineteen: Chitchat

"So let me get this straight."

"Go ahead and try."

"The world's most respected geneticist, this guy who's a pioneer in genetic engineering, is gay. (Right, I can deal with that.) His boyfriend is _also_ a world-famous geneticist. (I've heard weirder.) But that you have a crush on him _and_ his boyfriend is pregnant? _That_ is a little hard to believe."

"Which parts are you having trouble with?"

"The fact that it's _all_ so weird. I can take a little strangeness -- I work _here_, for fuck's sake -- but all this? Is a little much."

"So you see my dilemma," Reilly said, with not a little relief.

"Yeah." Kyle looked off to the side. "Your first assessment was dead-spot-on. Reilly," he pronounced, "your life has indeed gone pear-shaped."

"Good to get an expert opinion on that."

"Actually I think it'd be fair to say your life is more pear-shaped than the actual fruit is at this point."

Reilly cracked a smile. "You know, when we were in high school, I thought _you_ were going to fuck up."

"Don't think of it as a fuckup, think of it as a growth opportunity," Kyle said serenely, and then tempered it by adding, "And playing video games is no predictor of future success, incidentally."

"I know it isn't. I just enjoy mocking you. So is there anything else damaging you'd like to admit while you're at it?"

"Snape kills Dumbledore, Aerith dies, Santa isn't real, and by the way, your rabbit didn't run away, your parents took her to the shelter."

"Joke's on you -- I never had a rabbit."

"Your dog, then."

"What, you mean your mom?"

"I should have seen that coming."

"From me? Yes, you should have."

Silence.

"If we were still in high school." Reilly paused, then added, "And by the way, it's _Aeris_. Fuckface."

"Oh, don't you start _that_ again."

"You started it in the first place."

"What is this, Ms. Stratton's second grade again? (If it is, I'll have to tell Cheryl I like her now, before she moves to Kentucky.)" Kyle smirked.

"You'd be surprised. Based on the emotional maturity of the staff..."

"Yeah, I noticed," Kyle said dryly.

After a pause, he added:

"And why are we in a supply closet?"

"It _is_ a little bizarre; I'm sorry," said Reilly. "But I had to disappear off _somewhere_ to talk to you, and Animal Testing was the safest bet. Quiet, and I have authorization to be here."

"I don't."

"I had to come over here anyway, figured I might as well," Reilly continued.

"So I get to watch you torture some kid? Great. Just fan-fucking-tastic. Shall I make popcorn?"

"I'm just saying hi to him."

"What makes _this _one so special?"

"He's Dr. Batchelder's son."

"And the plot thickens," Kyle said.

"Indeed it does. You know the Eraser project, correct?"

"See 'em all the time. (Tell Fred he owes me half a pack, OK?)"

"Ari -- that's his name -- is the first post-natal test subject of that project."

"_Reilly_. Little words."

"Most of the Erasers have the wolf DNA put into them before they're born. Ari just went through his last round of gene therapy to have the wolf DNA put in his cells. Is any of this getting through?" Reilly asked, and then added, "I'll scream if you ask me to define DNA, that's just too much to ask."

"Wait. Ari like _Ari_ Ari?"

"Yes. Ari like wandering-around-all-the-time. Like little blond boy?"

"_Him_?" Kyle shook his head. "Why would you do that to your own son?" he said quietly.

"Jeb didn't do it."

"I'm not a fucking biologist or anything, but I know you have to sign a waiver to experiment on _kids _like that."

"Dr. Prescott forged Jeb's signature."

"Why? Why couldn't they find a subject somewhere _else_? You freaks do that all the time, I thought."

"Dr. Prescott likes to keep stuff like this in the family, as it were."

"And he likes to fuck with Batchelder's head, too."

"You haven't noticed?"

"I thought they used to be _friends._"

"Kyle. _We're_ friends." Reilly shrugged. "They were. But Dr. Batchelder, well, you remember how he fucked off for two years."

"No shit I do, he just got back. And is this a soap opera or what?"

"That's what _I_ said."

"And then you got _involved_... Jesus, this is worse than Metal Gear Solid 3."

"Those games got more complicated?"

"And how."

Silence.

"You're kind of a freak, you know that?" Kyle said.

"You've only been telling me that since we met. And _I'm_ a freak? Yeah, so says the man who's carted around the same Otacon poster for ten years."

"_Seven._ And I'm not the one who cried for a week straight when Francis Crick died."

"Oh, it wasn't a _week..._"

"So you _did_ cry!"

"No, I didn't."

"Denial."

"...well, all right, so I did wear black that day," Reilly concluded. "But come on, I _know_ you cried when Aeris died."

"_Aerith_, and come down off that high horse of yours, everyone does."

"The point being, you're in no position to mock _me_ for being a geek."

Kyle grinned and held up his hands. "All right, all right."

"I know you still _will_, but..."

"Of course I will! That's my _job_!"

"And here I was fairly sure that you were a programmer."

"Oh, see, that's just a _hobby,_" Kyle explained carefully.

"Fuck's sake it is, that's why you're here, isn't it?"

"Ostensibly." Kyle paused. "Hmm." He laughed and shook his head. "Christ. Shall I call up Hideo Kojima for you?"

"What for?" Reilly wanted to ask what relevance this Hideo whoever had to anything, but figured it was something Kyle would mock him for not knowing.

"He writes the Metal Gear games," Kyle said patiently. "Master of confusion and intricate plotting. Would be fascinated by all this."

"I was expected to remember him?"

"For the love of fuck, man. You only played the games _constantly_ in high school. Remember? I let you use my console, and you let me copy your homework?"

"Yes," Reilly said grudgingly.

Kyle shook his head. "_You_ were supposed to be the smart one. _I'm_ supposed to be the lazy one."

"The explanation for this one better be good," Reilly said.

"It is. See, it's like every time there are these two friends, there's a smart one and a slacker. Smart one lets the slacker mooch off of him, slacker provides oddly appropriate advice when it's funny, and sometimes they fight, but they always wind up being friends again. Naturally, cue homoeroticism."

Reilly stared at him.

"And _no_, I don't feel that way about you," Kyle added.

"No, I was going to ask how my _otaku_ slacker friend from high school turned into the smart one, and _I_ turned into the ditzy one. But if that's what you want to talk about..."

Kyle coughed. "Let's go see your little friend, how's about it?"


	20. How Do You Make A Hormone?

Chapter Twenty: How Do You Make a Hormone?

Reilly has been told many times that he has absolutely horrible timing.

He never really believed it before.

Jeb's hands skitter and trace over ter Borcht's skin, lightly, and Reilly has enough time to be hurt by this -- he knows perfectly well it's not right, that the two of them are happy with each other, but he still wants to be the one Jeb touches like that. It's not going to happen, but he wants it.

At least he has the good sense to be embarrassed.

They don't seem to.

Jeb's eyes flick upwards, and he sees Reilly standing there. He smiles, and his hands pause.

"Care to join us?"

Reilly's pinned to the spot -- he wants to say _Yes_, but he can't move.

Instead his eyes flicker and jump from one of them to the other. He can't look away.

* * *

Reilly woke up with the sheets tangled around his legs, fuzzyheaded and feeling vaguely hungover. Which didn't make sense in the least -- he couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten drunk (which was rather sad, given that he was twenty-four and weren't twentysomethings supposed to be party animals?).

And someone was trying to break his damn door down, from the sound of it.

When the fuck had he gotten so popular?

The pounding on the door refused to obey his will and abate, so he was forced to stop trying to ignore it and _do_ something.

"Who the fuck is it?" he said, not bothering to get out of bed. Might very well be the banging-the-door-down equivalent of a wrong number. He could hope.

"Language, Reilly," said a muffled voice.

"I don't know any Dr. Languages, sorry."

"Very, very funny. Laughing really hard here, Reilly," said the voice, and even through the door he was detecting a definite note of hysteria.

"A name would be _great_," Reilly said hazily. "I'm not getting out of bed until I have a name to work with."

Silence.

Whoever had been trying to break down the door made a fair go at jiggling the knob to get it open. Poor sucker. Reilly always remembered to lock the door -- or, failing that (the locks hardly ever worked), jam Paranoid Bipolar Disorder: An Elementary Examination, Biochemistry For Dummies, and Stedman's Concise Medical Dictionary in front of it.

Couldn't risk someone stealing his cheap bookcase, could he? Oh no. Plywood and cinderblocks were valuable commodities, after all. (Well, all right, so he could very well have bought a better bookcase if he wanted to -- but it had served him well through college, so there was no point getting rid of the damn thing now.)

"Also, anything you need my help with... well, there are people here who already have their doctorates, try asking one of them," Reilly said, beginning to get irritated.

A sigh (and how Reilly could detect that from behind the door, but not who it was, he didn't know -- Christ, the human brain _was_ as peculiar as his Psychology teacher had taught him).

"I _have_ a doctorate, Reilly."

Shit _motherfucker_.

"Dr. Prescott, next time just tell me it's you," Reilly said, struggling his way out of the sheets (which seemed determined to hang on to him) and searching out a clean pair of jeans. "I just woke up."

The voice from behind the door laughed. "It's definitely not Dr. Prescott."

"Then who the fuck _is_ it?" Reilly asked, throwing on a clean-but-wrinkled (and who gave a shit?) black t-shirt.

Another sigh (and Reilly could just picture whoever it was running a hand through his hair in exasperation). "It's Jeb."

Reilly froze, holding an orphaned sock.

Ooh, and just when he thought his life was awkward.

"Why didn't you say so?" Reilly found the sock's mate -- _damn_, was life determined to make him feel awkward this... morning? "I was freaking out, man."

"Don't worry." Jeb laughed (and oh, man, was that a creepy sound) tensely. "I'll freak out for you."

"Don't just say that and leave me hanging," Reilly said, picking his way through the clutter to the door. "It's bad karma." He shifted the books out of the way -- God, why did he even still have his textbooks? That class had been _freshman year_, for Chrissakes -- and yanked the door open.

Jeb looked terrible.

Well, more terrible than usual -- the man was never exactly the picture of health in the first place.

"This better be worth it," said Reilly's mouth, which still hadn't quite caught up to what was going on.

Reilly paused, wishing that it were possible to hit Undo in real life -- as Kyle would probably put it.

"Depends on how you're defining 'worth it'," Jeb said.

In the whole picture of how disorganized Jeb looked, somehow it was the fact that his glasses were crooked that creeped Reilly out the most. (Mainly because he wanted to adjust them. Damn it.)

"OK, explain what's going on here," Reilly said.

"I can try," Jeb said, and straightened out his glasses. (Damn, damn, _damn_.)

"Hit me. I sat through Kyle's summary of the Metal Gear games, I think I can probably take whatever you have to throw at me."

Predictably, Jeb stared at Reilly like he had suddenly burst into flames.

And then, thankfully, he spoke (very noticeably not making eye contact -- suddenly, Reilly was almost wishing he was talking with Kyle, because while it could be difficult to keep up with all the stupid video game jokes, at least he knew how the whole looking-at-people-while-you-talk-to-them thing worked).

"He won't shut up," he muttered.

"Who's he? God? Be specific."

Jeb (unnecessarily, but he was excused -- it was a nervous habit) reached up and adjusted his glasses. "Roland."

Reilly stared at him. Not because he was nice to look at or anything (well, OK, so he was, but that was entirely beside the point), but because some things are just goddamned bizarre.

"He's. _Chatty_," Jeb said.

"I can see why that's disturbing."

"You haven't seen it yet."

Reilly had once thought that H. P. Lovecraft was just another neurotic writer, of the sort that attempts to exorcise his own inner demons through his writing by letting the little bastards run loose on the page, biting the hell out of the shins of any readers unlucky enough to venture into a collection of his works.

"I read Lovecraft too," Reilly said, making a solid (and sleep-deprived) effort to sound comforting, but suspecting he just came off sarcastic. "I, too, have gazed upon the horrors crafted by the Old Ones."

"...I'll get you some coffee first," Jeb said.

Reilly hadn't known one could pronounce ellipses. Or were those ovals? The three dots things. People did it all the time in video games... not to mention manga, where one could hold entirely conversations in the things.

Those, and body language.

"You're a brilliant man," said Reilly, who really did need the caffeine.

"So I'm told."

"With good reason."

"You flatter me."

* * *

The caffeine did, indeed, help.

A little.

Reilly had never been much of a morning person anyway. Coffee just helped him be civil. If not fully conscious.

And it definitely let him get along with his coworkers (crazy bastards that they were, much as he enjoyed working with them) with a little more grace (if anyone who'd ever worked at the School could be said to have any grace at all -- especially Reilly).

Well, maybe not coworkers plural. But it at least let him keep up with Jeb a little better -- not that there was much to keep up with, sitting in the staff lounge, holding a cup of coffee and struggling to pay attention.

Luckily he didn't have much to pay attention to, or he would have failed miserably.

"Feeling any better?" Jeb asked.

"_Man_, you're twitchy," Reilly said. "It's like you're a morning person or something."

Jeb didn't smile. That might be a bad sign. Or it might just be a sign that he was, after all, Jeb. And wasn't too hot on the showing-emotions thing. And hadn't smiled five times that Reilly could remember before that week.

So maybe Reilly just needed to shut up and will the caffeine into making him lucid.

"It just makes me nervous," Jeb said. "That he's all chatty all of a sudden."

"Because it's unusual behavior for him."

"Exactly." Jeb nodded. "I can't quite figure it out. Why this would happen."

"Watch your sentence fragments." Reilly sipped his coffee -- which had started getting cold while he wasn't looking. "And I was talking with him just the other day... something _does_ seem to be fishy in Denmark."

"You say that a lot, have you ever noticed?"

"Yes," Reilly said, summoning up a reservoir of patience. "I've noticed."

"Good. It'd be... kind of weird if you didn't notice."

Forget ter Borcht -- something was highly fishy with Jeb's behavior lately too.

"You're acting kind of weird too," Reilly said. _Oh, good show, Reilly,_ he thought, a second too late to take it back. _Very tactful_.

_I majored in tact_, he thought, rather randomly.

_No, you didn't._

_Then what did I major in?_

_No one loves a smartass._

Sleep, he decided, was just as good a thing as it was cracked up to be. Sleep, and caffeine.

Either would probably keep him from holding conversations with himself.

"Am I?" Jeb drummed his fingers on the table. "I hadn't noticed."

"You're kind of... twitchy, like I said earlier. Hyperactive."

"Oh."

"Have you been taking your meds?"

"This time, yes."

Something was _definitely_ fishy in Denmark, and damn, did Reilly ever wish he knew what it was. Having the answer would solve a lot of problems. Probably not world hunger, but...

"Ah. I was just wondering."

"I understand."

Reilly was beginning to wonder if he was overthinking the problem -- that had happened to him quite a bit in school (OK, who was he kidding, talking as if it had been years and years ago?), when he'd failed to see the pattern because he was too concerned with small details.

Or when he'd failed to see the answer because he was trying to come up with a specific answer...

Oh.

"D' you think it's hormones?" Reilly said.

"Say what?"

"Hormones. Like..." Reilly tried to find a way to say what he was thinking, and passionately wished he were a telepath, because he just couldn't focus enough to put the right words together. "Jesus. Hormones."

"Like... he's... _Oh_." Jeb had been making a vague attempt at holding eye contact, and now he glanced away -- was he _blushing_?

The sensible part of Reilly's brain once again packed up shop and left, muttering that this was just _too weird_.

Reilly bid it farewell. Who needed sense, anyway? It was _morning_. He had caffeine for that.

"Yeah," Reilly muttered, hoping that Jeb had made the correct intuitive leap -- it would suck if he had to explain what he was thinking, and he really didn't think he was up to the task. "That. Um."

"Yeah, well, thanks," Jeb said awkwardly. "Sorry for waking you up so early."

And he left, leaving Reilly alone with a cold cup of coffee and more questions than he'd started out with.

_Sounds like the opening of a cheap novel_.

_More like the ending of one._

_Shut up._


	21. Just Say No

Chapter Twenty-One: Just Say No

It's a well-known fact that programmers don't actually sleep (they wait) -- and thank God for that, or Reilly would have had nowhere to go.

Because it's _also_ a well-known fact that, at least at the School, programmers are addicted to at least one drug -- which is often tobacco.

Therefore, it was entirely reasonable for Reilly to expect his friend Kyle to be outside smoking, awake before the sun had even rolled out of bed -- and decently plausible for him to be _right_. (The School had a peculiar effect on plausibility like that -- on its grounds, while not _all_ things were possible, quite a few _improbable_ things were possible. Most people attributed that to Jeb buying Plausibility a round of drinks back when he'd founded the School, but Plausibility maintained that that was a flat-out lie.)

"You enjoying your lung cancer?"

Kyle exhaled and, eyes half-closed, watched the smoke spiral upward against the still-dark sky. "If you're enjoying your sleep-deprivation psychosis." He glanced over at Reilly. "I can see you're here to ask a question. So make it snappy."

"When did _you_ turn into the smart one?" Reilly said.

Kyle dropped his cigarette butt in the dust and ground it out. "I've always been the smart one. Just took _you_ a while to figure it out." He lit a fresh coffin-nail. "Still don't smoke?"

"No."

"Good on you."

"Chain-smoking's gonna kill you." Reilly shot Kyle a Look. "Maybe you're not the smart one after all."

"Yet nonetheless you solicit my help."

"You're doing that deliberately."

"Doing what? Increasing my vocabulary in thirty days? Or fucking with your head?" Kyle took a drag.

"You fuck with my head all the time."

"Damn straight. You're the reason, I'm the rhyme."

"You know you shouldn't smoke that stuff, working here."

"Knock it off, you know I'm straight. Have been since college." He exhaled a plume of smoke. "Go ahead and ask your question. Consult the Oracle."

"Who the hell are you, and where did you stow Kyle's dead ass?"

Kyle sighed, and watched his secondhand smoke waver lazily starward, hurrying along the wind into the lightening sky. "Marathon coding session, man. This is the comedown. God, my wrists hurt," he added.

"All right," said Reilly. "Since you want to hear my question -- let me tell you a story..."

Kyle took a meditative last drag when Reilly had finished talking. "Same problem as last time, huh? Regular therapist not good enough?"

"Since I haven't got a therapist anyway."

"Mm." Kyle fished his lighter out of his pocket and started spinning it over his knuckles -- an old nervous habit, and one that still drove Reilly bonkers. "So." The lighter paused. "You're asking me." Began to spin again. "What you should do."

"Stop talking like that, you're giving me a headache. And yes, that would be it," Reilly said. Kyle's episodes of philosophy had come and gone since high school. Didn't mean Reilly _liked_ them.

"Chill out, that's my advice." Kyle glanced down and noticed the lighter absently spinning itself over his knuckles. He shoved it back in his pocket. "Go into town. Change your surroundings. About time for a supply run anyway."

"That's code for 'Reilly, buy me cigarettes', isn't it?"

"You know me too well."

* * *

"Admit it," Reilly said, looping an arm around his friend's shoulders. "You just wanted to get me drunk."

"You've seen right through me." Kyle toasted him mockingly. "And you need to lighten up a little, that's all."

"Doesn't mean I have to get _drunk_."

"At least you actually _can_ drink tonight."

Reilly paused. "True."

"Your liver's sorry for it, I'll bet."

"Maybe. Wish I could drive back."

"I thought you hated that road?"

"Hate the road," Reilly countered. "Like the car."

"Ah, the Bus," Kyle mused, deftly steering Reilly out of the bar.

"Mm-hmm." Reilly nodded enthusiastically. "The Bus."

"Didn't you give it a _name_ at some point?"

"_That_," Reilly said, "was a mistake. It took me a while to figure it all out, huh?"

"I see." Kyle supported him as they came to a halt in the gravel parking lot. When Reilly overdid it... Reilly _overdid it_. "So why was it a mistake?"

"It's just... _the Bus_," Reilly explained patiently.

"Ah."

"See, you're a fast learner," Reilly continued. "It took _me_ a _long_ time to figure it out." He paused, seemingly taking the time to construct the next sentence like a ship in a bottle. With one hand and a hook. While using chopsticks. Blindfolded.

"Did it really?" Doctor ter Borcht didn't seem to be in the Bus. That was odd.

It was also odd that the Bus didn't seem to be there.

Kyle, however, had more pressing concerns.

Like the fact that he had, in a rather odd reversal of their usual roles, become the one taking care of his best friend, instead of the one being told not to do something because it was stupid and didn't he know better than that?

Well, it wasn't so odd if you considered the fact that Kyle was the one with the sense not to get as drunk as Reilly was.

Maybe he _was_ the smart one of the two.

Stranger things had happened.

"Yeah," Reilly said hazily. "Hey look, the Big Dipper."

"Really."

"You can tell 'cause it points north," Reilly said knowingly, and pointed out the constellation in question. (Kyle rather suspected it was the only one Reilly could find -- although he was in no place to mock Reilly about that, being that Kyle could barely find Orion.)

"Fascinating." Kyle definitely _felt_ like he was the smarter one right now. Maybe he was a little more pretentious than usual (he could tell from the way he was thinking -- the structure of his thoughts had gotten a lot more labyrinthine than it should be, and he wasn't swearing at all), but he wasn't the one veering from talking about cars to talking about stars.

Oh. That rhymed.

...Maybe Kyle was drunker than he thought he was.

Was that even grammatical?

Probably not.

Which just proved his point anyway.

"You know what, Kyle?" Reilly said, voice noticeably slurred. (He'd been a big partier in college and high school, Kyle remembered. Was it possible he'd lost his touch?)

"What?"

Reilly was silent, looking up at the stars. Something Kyle _liked_ about the School -- the night sky was so clear. Stargazing was as easy as taking a good long look up on a moonless night.

Well, if you knew your stars and were outside at night.

"What, Reilly?"

"Oh." He paused and struggled to collect his thoughts. "I mean I was just thinking that..." He trailed off.

"Thinking what?"

"I told you I..." He frowned.

"Have a crush on Jeb, yes."

"That. Yeah. Well. I. Um."

One of Reilly's less endearing qualities: he had a total inability to _spit it out_.

Possibly that was why he'd been so agreeable to taking on the role of relationship and human-interaction counselor: he sucked pretty hard at it himself.

"Honestly, even if you hadn't told me, I'd have figured it out."

"What?" He could be _so_ dense.

"Has it occurred to you that there must be a _reason_ you're standing in a parking lot right now?"

"I get amnesic when I'm drunk."

"That's not a reason."

"True," Reilly admitted.

He was silent for a moment, then added craftily:

"What _is_ the reason?"

"Oh good, I thought you'd never ask. You were hitting on your boss."

"Dr. Prescott isn't even _here_."

"I'm being dramatic, spare me the literalism." Kyle brushed a strand of hair out of his eyes. "Dr. Batchelder, I mean."

"_Jeb_?"

"Yes. You were flirting with him."

"No way." Reilly shook his head. "_No_ way."

"Yes. I was standing _next_ to you."

Reilly was silent, and then said quietly, "Aww, _man._"

"Do you want me to repeat what you said?"

"Nah, it's good," Reilly said. "I'll probably remember later."

Kyle almost pitied him.

Well, OK -- Kyle pitied him.

"So... _why_ am I standing in a parking lot?"

Ah yes. That.

"I'm going to find you a greasy spoon and try to make you sober."

"With coffee?" Reilly laughed. "Man. If that worked I'd know. It doesn't. Trust me." He waved his hand around. "I and I kind of like this better, anyway."

"You won't like the hangover."

"All right, all right," he conceded. "Would anywhere here even be _open_ this late?"

"Yes. The problem's going to be finding it."

* * *

As it was, they didn't find it.

Mainly because Darwin, California was too small a town to have a greasy spoon open that late.

Kyle wasn't terribly concerned with that, though -- what he was concerned with was the fact that the Bus had disappeared. And that it was later than he'd thought it was.

"They went back without us?" Reilly said. "I would have _noticed_ if everyone left."

"I'm not quite sure how it happened either," Kyle admitted, sprawled across the motel bed. "Move over. I'm going to fall off."

The motel had been Reilly's intellectual triumph of the night -- being that without everyone else, they were stranded in Darwin, it would do no good at all to spend that time on the street.

Kyle, however, suspected Reilly had had ulterior motives in suggesting the motel. (With Reilly, there was _always_ an ulterior motive -- the trouble would be in spotting it.)

Honestly, though?

He couldn't be bothered to care.

"OK." Reilly didn't move, but laid a protective arm across Kyle's chest. "Don't go anywhere."

"Yeah."

"I always kind of liked you, you know?" Reilly told the ceiling.

"I suspected as much." And then, for no particular reason, he added, "It's mutual."


	22. Ulterior Motive

Chapter Twenty-Two: Ulterior Motive

"Oh Jesus."

This was why Reilly had given up drinking: he had a tendency to wake up the morning after in someplace he hadn't meant to be. (That, and he usually wound up being the one driving after a supply run.)

And this was not a place he'd ever meant to be.

Certainly not a place he'd ever _thought_ of being -- Kyle was his _friend_.

Or he had been. Reilly really wasn't sure how to think of him now.

Best to forget it?

Well, he could try, anyway -- and he wished Jeb were there, since Reilly had never been much for self-deception, and God knew he needed that skill now.

Wasn't _that_ an obvious way for his subconscious to send him a message?

The _third_ reason he'd stopped drinking was that he had a tendency to lose his memory -- but not all of it.

Which was why, in that silence endemic to hotel rooms in the early morning, Reilly had to listen to what his subconscious was telling him.

In this case, it was quietly handing him fragments of memory.

_"You have a lot of scars."_

_"Comes with the job," Reilly says._

_Kyle runs a finger down the length of one scar, the one that kept Reilly in bed for a week that traces down his left side from shoulder blade to hip._

_"How are you not dead?" he asks._

_"I'm lucky."_

_"You must be." Kyle's fingers wander from the end of that scar to the beginning of the next one. This one's more faded than the other, slanting up across Reilly's stomach and fading into nothing. "Jesus. What's this?"_

_"Wrong place, wrong time. My first week at the School."_

_"That's rough." Kyle's hand strays lower and_

he stirred next to Reilly, outstretched hand twitching on the sheet. "Hmm?" He opened one eye, though only halfway.

Reilly froze.

"Morning," Kyle said sleepily.

There's nowhere you can run to when you're lying next to the person you want to escape.

"Um," Reilly said. "Morning."

"You're awake." Kyle blinked.

"Not really," Reilly said. "I'm gonna go take a shower."

"'Kay."

He had, Reilly discovered when he almost stumbled into the wall, one hell of a headache.

Great.

The _high_ point of a _fantastic_ morning.

* * *

Kyle had been right about the scars, Reilly thought -- even for a lab tech, he had an unusual number. And more than the usual amount of spectacular, distinctive ones -- it seemed like it was just his lot to _always_ be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

If he wasn't, trust him to _make_ it the wrong time.

The hot water didn't help his headache any, but keeping the lights off seemed to, and by the time he dragged himself out of the shower, the feeling that he was being given a inept and overly enthusiastic ice-pick lobotomy had faded.

That was when he remembered that he'd left his clothes out in the room, scattered on the floor around the bed.

He sighed.

Right.

Nothing for it but to go get them, then.

With a towel wrapped around his hips, he ventured into the room.

Kyle hadn't even gotten out of bed -- he was sitting crosslegged, still under the sheets, doodling on the phone pad. "Hey," he said, not looking up.

It didn't help anything that he looked... well, he looked hot.

Reilly hadn't really noticed it before, but with his hair out of the stupid hipster ponytail (that he'd started affecting sometime in high school when he got too lazy to cut his hair more often than twice a year), letting it fall loose and frame his face (like now) -- he looked _good_.

...OK. He was always telling Jeb to stop deluding himself, and he might as well take his own advice.

Seeing Kyle shirtless, with his hair loose around his shoulders -- it made Reilly _want_ him.

"You just going to stand there?"

"I'm -- looking for my shirt," Reilly said lamely, deliberately not looking at him.

"Over here." Kyle leaned over and retrieved it from the floor. "Come get it."

"Thanks."

Kyle wouldn't give him the shirt. Instead he shook his head and laughed. "You know what I thought when you woke me up?"

"Give me the fucking shirt," Reilly said, uneasily thinking of what Kyle might say next: _I'll never drink again_? _I didn't know you were gay?_

Kyle leaned up towards Reilly and spoke. "That of all the things I never thought I'd see -- you next to me in bed was the best to see realized." He smirked.

_Oh._

Well, if there were possibly a good way to conclude this dilemma he was in, this might be it.

"I -- didn't know you felt that way," Reilly said.

"Well, I do," Kyle said. "It just came to the fore last night."

"I thought you were just drunk." Reilly sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Not _that_ drunk."

"But drunk enough."

Kyle tapped his temple with one finger. "Exactly. We make a good team."

"You've told me that before."

"Because it's true."

"Did you really need to repeat it?"

Kyle tilted his head, looking at Reilly in that weird direct way that only the (nearly) completely socially inept seemed to possess. "I wanted to make sure it got through."

"You thought it didn't?"

"You have a tendency to be a little dense." Kyle smirked.

"Do you think they're wondering where we are?"

"You're avoiding me," Kyle said, and then added, "Don't think I can't tell -- we've been friends since second grade."

"That's what makes this so awkward," Reilly said.

"Why?"

The only thing keeping Reilly from doing something he'd have regretted was the fact that he knew Kyle was serious.

"I mean... you know me." He pulled Reilly closer to him. "I know you. What makes it awkward?"

Not having to look at Kyle while he spoke made it easier. "We're _friends_. We cheer each other up after we get dumped. Go out drinking together."

"Lust after Otacon together?"

Reilly said nothing. Maybe if he didn't acknowledge it, Kyle's question would disappear.

"Oh, come on," Kyle said. His breath brushed against Reilly's neck. _Goddamnit_. "You don't remember it?"

Nothing. If I don't think it, it'll stop being real...

"We wrote _fanfiction_ about him together, Reilly. I think I still have it somewhere."

_Stop it_! Reilly wanted to say -- but Kyle's even breath against his neck kept him silent, distracted by the pattern.

Damn his geeky predictability.

"I know," Reilly said hesitantly. "But I thought you were just going along with it."

"Of course not. I enjoyed it as much as you did."

"Really?"

"Of course." He kissed Reilly's neck. "The point being," he continued, "that this time _you're_ the oblivious one."

"I'm not the oblivious one all the time?"

Kyle's hand skimmed down Reilly's chest, finding the tail end of the long scar just about his hip. "Judging from your scars... not _all_ the time."

"But enough of the time?" Reilly was aware he wasn't making much sense, but it didn't matter.

"Enough to pick up some _wicked_ scars." He kept his hand on the scar. "So tell me about this one."

"Didn't I tell you already?"

"Not that I recall." Kyle's hand stole down a little lower, tracing along Reilly's hip.

"You're making it kind of hard to focus."

"I know. If this didn't distract you, I'd be worried."

"Why are you doing it, then?"

"Because I like you when you're distracted."

"Not the rest of the time?"

"Oh, don't get me wrong. You're just... _cute_."

"_Cute_?"

"Would you prefer sexy?"

"If I have to choose, then yes."

Kyle pulled Reilly closer towards him, practically into his lap. "Mmm. Good to know," he said, speaking quietly into Reilly's ear.

As it was, Reilly was having trouble thinking anyway.

Especially given that Kyle had now moved on to toying with the edge of the towel.

"Any other scar stories you've been withholding?"

"They're all basically the same," Reilly said, leaning backwards into Kyle.

"To you, maybe." His thumb caught against the ridge of an older scar, now long faded. "I remember _this_ one."

"Because you were there."

"Why else would I remember?"

"I might have told you."

"You wouldn't have." Kyle breathed into Reilly's hair. "You're not very forthcoming, you know." He paused. "You smell like motel soap."

"No complimentary shampoo."

"You have nice taste in crappy motels."

"It's a talent."

"You're multitalented."

Kyle's hand brushed against Reilly's stomach and oh _damn_ it, he wasn't going to stand for this any longer.

"Kyle." He drew in a breath.

"Yes?" His thumb moved a little, tracing a patch of skin where, surprisingly, Reilly had no scars.

"Stop being a tease and just _touch_ me."

"Of the two of us, I'd call _you_ the tease," Kyle said softly, then hissed into Reilly's ear. "And do you mean 'touch me' or '_fuck_ me'?"

"You know what I mean."

"Say it. Tell me exactly what you mean."

Reilly really wasn't doing so hot in the arena of rational thought at the moment, but he held on a little longer.

"I mean-- all right. _Fuck_ me, then."

"Gladly." He moved his mouth down to kiss Reilly's neck again.

(The towel ended up forgotten next to Reilly's shirt. It was only just, in a way.)

"You know me, Reilly," he breathed, running his tongue down the side of Reilly's neck. "I need you to be specific. Tell me what you want."

"I _know_," Reilly said. "I..."

"Can't think right now? I wouldn't expect you to. But. It's easier if you talk to me."

"That's what I tell everyone," Reilly said, eyes slitting closed. "You'd think a bunch of guys old enough to be my _dad_ would know something about how to relate to other human beings."

"Apparently not."

"And we do."

Kyle's hand paused. "Reilly."

His eyes opened. "Yes?"

"Talk to me."

"It's kind of hard when you're distracting me."

"Mmm. Does that translate to 'keep doing that'?"

"Yes. _Ah_!" Reilly shuddered. "Yes," he said breathlessly. "By all means."

"Good. To be frank -- I don't know what I'm doing."

"That's all right," Reilly gasped. "You don't -- need to."

"I'm used to needing to know what I'm doing."

"In my line of work -- that would make sense. For you -- not so much." Reilly stopped talking, panting.

"I take it you like that?"

"Yes. But -- _ah_ -- can you stop? For a moment?"

"Am I doing something wrong?" Kyle said drily.

But he _did_ stop.

"No." Reilly turned to face him, grinning. "You should get to have some fun, too."

The look on Kyle's face was close to perfect.

And, satisfyingly, he gasped when Reilly touched him.

His lips shaped "What?" but without a breath to back it he was inaudible.

Reilly touched him, and heard his lies quietly taking leave with every shaky breath he took.

They _were_ friends -- always would be.

He had, however, harbored a crush on Kyle since he was fourteen. This? Was really just the next logical step.

"Last night," said Kyle with recovered breath.

"Hmm?" Reilly described a path from Kyle's side (slanting down over his stomach) with his hand.

At some point they'd wound up lying down, and Kyle's hips arched a little -- admirably, he managed to speak. "I didn't know you were -- into that."

"I'm a terrible cliché," he said, and moved to kneel over Kyle, straddling him.

"Try amazing." Kyle reached up, caressing him, brushing his hand against Reilly's hip.

"No one's ever said that to me," he said softly.

"Really? Bedside table," he added, sensing what Reilly was looking for (he seemed rather distracted, and not for the logical reason).

"Really. This might be a little cold," he said.

Kyle's eyes widened and he made a surprised hissing noise. "You weren't kidding."

"I didn't think _you_ were into this," Reilly admitted.

"I was drunk."

"Not _that_ drunk," Reilly said, giving him back his words.

Kyle, appropriately, said nothing, then spoke hazily.

"Shouldn't we -- _ah_ -- use some kind of protection?"

"You ask that _now_? Trust me."

Kyle lifted his hips a little. "I'd ask, but--"

"Later."

He cried out softly when Reilly pressed down onto him.


	23. Don't Go There

Chapter Twenty-Three: Don't Go There

Jeb had been through this before, with Connie and with quite a few of the women who had volunteered as surrogate mothers for the Angel Experiment -- but that didn't mean he wasn't worried when Roland refused to come to breakfast.

When that extended to lunch, he got _really_ worried.

Even Connie's morning sickness hadn't been this bad.

"Roland?" He knocked on the door. "How are you feeling?"

"Terrible. Go away."

"Do you want me to bring you something?"

"No. I'm _fine_, Jeb. I'd tell you if I wasn't," he added, resigned.

"All right."

He could be so _irritating._

* * *

Jeb was in line when Prescott struck up a conversation.

"Hello, Jeb."

He nodded. "Hello."

"How are you?"

"Fine," he said tightly. There was something about Prescott's demeanor he really didn't like.

"Worrying about your boyfriend? Don't worry, he's fine. Softhearted faggot," Prescott added, _sotto voce._

"What did you say?" Jeb said.

Prescott cut his eyes sideways and chuckled. "You're softhearted, Jeb. You can't think about him as a person. All he is is an _experiment_. One that very well may fail. Honestly I don't know what you see in him -- then again, given a track record like _yours..._"

"Don't you talk about him like that," Jeb said.

"Why? At this point _it_ is nothing but an experiment that's been placed under your care -- an experiment that you've made the mistake of getting close to."

"He. Is. Not. An. It," Jeb said, deliberately keeping his voice low -- he didn't want to draw _more_ attention to himself.

"You really are softhearted." Prescott chuckled. "First your Angel Experiment, and now this. Tell me, faggot--"

"If you call me that again, I'll kill you," Jeb said, voice still deliberately soft.

He saw a flash of fear in Prescott's eyes. "Really? I doubt you have the courage, _faggot_," Prescott said, goading.

Jeb knew he was taking the bait, but he couldn't stop himself from grabbing the front of Prescott's shirt and slamming him against the wall.

"Listen to me," he said. "I'm tired of you undermining my authority. This is Roland's experiment, and he put _me_ in charge of overseeing it. Not you."

Prescott bared his teeth, grinning. "I suppose that's why you've become so emotionally attached to him?"

"I'm 'emotionally attached' to him because he's carrying my child," Jeb said quietly.

Prescott's eyes glittered. "Ah, so it's _yours_, then. No wonder you can't take an objective standpoint--"

Jeb punched him.

Prescott couldn't dodge, as close as they were standing. He ducked his head to the side and spat.

"All I'm saying, Batchelder, is that you haven't got exactly the best record." He grinned. "You remember what happened to the last person you loved."

"I have my talents, but causing car accidents isn't one of them," Jeb said.

"Shut up," Prescott snarled. "I don't know who told you that ridiculous lie, but I'm going to put a stop to it: there _was_ no fucking car accident. You murdered her."

Jeb was pretty sure Prescott kept talking after that, but all he could hear was a dull rushing noise in his ears, and all he could feel was the urge to _hurt_ him for saying that.

"Stop," he heard, and then someone was holding him back and he struggled against the hands and "Jeb, stop" and his vision cleared and it was Reilly and "Stop" he said.

And Reilly was _touching him_ and that was just too much to bear.

"Don't touch me!" and when he tried to jerk away he found how strong Reilly was (had he suspected any less of someone to whom most heavy lifting was delegated?) and could not remove his arm from that grip.

"Jeb," Reilly said. "Jeb, calm down."

Prescott stared at him, wild-eyed.

Jeb saw that there was blood on his face, smeared along his cheek like paint.

Had he done that?

"Jeb," Reilly said gently.

"Yes?" he said, allowing Reilly to guide him away from Prescott.

"Roland wants to see you."

"What's wrong? Is something the matter?" Jeb struggled to get free from Reilly. "Where is he?"

"He's fine." Reilly's grip tightened on Jeb's arm. "Calm down."

"You keep _saying_ that," Jeb said, hearing the hysterical note in his own voice. "Were you _listening_ to what he was _saying_?"

"Everyone was. You were practically shouting at each other."

"Then how am I supposed to _calm down_?"

"Just... I don't know," Reilly admitted. "I don't know, but getting hysterical over it won't help anyone. Neither will starting fights -- I _really_ don't appreciate having to break them up."

"I'm not _hysterical_."

"Jeb, listen to yourself."

Jeb adjusted his glasses, hands shaking and clumsy. "I am."

He had the presence of mind to notice that Reilly was calling him by his first name now -- had been doing so the entire time they'd been talking. When had Reilly stopped being the scared little intern Jeb had met so long ago -- when had he stopped being the kid who blushed scarlet every time "Dr. Batchelder" entered the _room_?

Possibly when he'd disappeared for a day with Kyle -- and started _giggling_ when Jeb asked him where he'd been. (Eventually Jeb had just given up on asking, figuring that if it turned out to be important he could pry some of the story out of Kyle, who, though confusing, tended to be at least cooperative.)

"Just... take a deep breath," Reilly said. He grinned. "That's what everyone always says, but it helps."

Jeb shoved his hands in his pockets and looked down at his shoes. They'd come outside now, and it was easier to watch the sidewalk continue to be grey than to try and predict what Reilly was going to do next.

It wasn't as exciting, but at least it was constant.

"You're not the first one this has happened to," Reilly said quietly, and Jeb glanced up to see him crack a smile. "Count yourself lucky you don't have to go through it during high school. That is _hell_."

Maybe Reilly knew what he was talking about, Jeb thought -- or if he didn't, he'd have a weird, intuitive emotional understanding of it.

Jeb was rather leaning toward the first possibility.

Reilly stayed outside the door, standing firmly on the concrete. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do," he said, and let the door shut.

_That_ was absolutely useless advice if Jeb had ever heard it, and he'd heard some pretty bad advice. (Number one possibly being: you'll be safe if you take the proper precautions. Third rule of mad science: Fate is watching, and the moment you drop your guard it will decide to wing a doozy of a coincidence or disaster right at your head -- just to keep you on your toes, mind, nothing personal.)

Perhaps if Jeb weren't so hopeless in the entire area of interpersonal relationships, he wouldn't have stood around in the hall for a full five minutes like an idiot while he tried to formulate some kind of opening conversational gambit before finally determining that he could just make it up as he went -- it seemed to work well enough for everyone else, didn't it?

Or so he thought -- it turned out that Yes, _That_ Jeb Batchelder was just as human as everyone else, being that he couldn't think of anything to say when Roland opened the door, stared at him, and asked, "What happened to _you_?"

"I got in a fight," he said after a moment, feeling rather helpless.

"No _kidding_. Over what?"

"You," Jeb said, defied to put it in any way that made him feel less ridiculous.

"That's sweet," Roland observed. "With who?"

"Guess."

"I don't know anyone here."

"Dr. Prescott," Jeb said, and was rewarded by the look of combined "what the _fuck_?" and "I am not amused" on Roland's face.

"You're kidding."

"I couldn't make this up if I tried."

"You know, violence won't solve your problems."

"I've been told that before."

"Do I want to know why _him_?"

"Probably not," Jeb said, "it's kind of a long story."

"Whenever someone says that, it turns out short and boring."

"I'll tell it later."

"Good plan."

"Once I've had some time to calm down."

"This just happened?"

"Yes. Reilly dragged me down here, insisting that you wanted to talk to me."

"I wanted to apologize." Roland shrugged. "For worrying you."

"I take it you're feeling better?"

"No," Roland said, deadpan. "I feel terrible."

"Well, if you're going to be like that," Jeb said, feeling his mood lighten like the eastern sky just as you're realizing you've pulled yet another all-nighter, "I've got some work I should be doing."

"What the hell are you working on, anyway?" Roland wondered.

"I'll tell you eventually."

"I look forward to it," Roland said dryly. "It'd better be good, it's practically killing you."

"Not as if you've got the healthiest work habits yourself."

"True." Roland sighed. "Then go work. And promise you'll tell me what it is."

"I'll get to it." Jeb grinned, and added spontaneously, "You're involved."

"I don't know whether to fear for my life or be thrilled."

"Good idea. Actually you ought to take a third option," Jeb said thoughtfully.

"Which would be?"

"Start coming up with a character," Jeb said, and grinned. "That's all I'll tell you for now."

"Oh, that's low."

"I like to keep people on tenterhooks."

"Even me?"

"Even you."


	24. Two Plans

Chapter Twenty-Four: Two Plans

"Heard about the fight yet?"

Kyle glanced over at Reilly and lit his cigarette. "Of course. You know me." He took a drag. "I'm on _top_ of the rumor mill here."

"Are you?"

"Damn right I am. Clearly you've never seen a bunch of programmers gossip."

"I've never seen a bunch of programmers be civil to each other."

"Mm." Kyle took a drag. "You're not a programmer."

Reilly fidgeted. "Why do you never let me talk to you inside?"

"It's bugged in there. You've seen the cameras."

"You're paranoid," Reilly said. "There may be security cameras, but it's not _bugged._"

"They have sound."

"Do you think they _care_ what a _programmer_ is talking about?"

"You work with Them, Reilly. They're paranoid." He blew a smoke ring, a talent he'd developed in college, and which Reilly had always vaguely envied. "Also, when it appears to be about the German guy who's visiting to work on a very important project... I think They'd take a special interest?"

"How the fuck would they _know_?" Reilly asked, then shook his head. "You know what? Never mind."

"I wasn't paying attention anyway."

"Fuck you very much."

Kyle said nothing.

"Anyway. About the fight."

"Let me guess. You were there?"

"How did you _know_?"

"Simple. You have front row seats to everything dramatic Batchelder does."

"Shut up," Reilly said, deliberately straight-faced.

"Well, you _do._ You work with him, for fuck's sake."

"True."

"Count yourself lucky you haven't had to make some kind of drastic intervention yet."

"Didn't you listen to the gossip?"

"What about it?" Kyle put out his cigarette.

"The part where I broke up the fight."

"_Nice_," Kyle said. "Smooth move."

"Hey, I just wanted to make sure Dr. Batchelder didn't _kill_ my boss."

"Come on. Batchelder weighs what? A hundred forty pounds? There's no way in hell he could take Prescott down."

Reilly eyed Kyle skeptically. "It's obvious you weren't there. I'm pretty sure Prescott's gonna scar."

"_What_?" Kyle turned to face Reilly. "OK. Tell me what I don't know."

"What I've already let slip, pretty much." Reilly shrugged.

"Batchelder tried to _kill_ him? What the fuck did he _say_?"

"I'm not sure," Reilly said modestly, despite the fact he'd heard practically every word said. "Something about Dr. ter Borcht, and I _think_ I heard him mention Jeb's wife."

"No wonder he flipped out," Kyle said.

"Yeah. He said some pretty, uh, bad stuff about Jeb, too."

"Like fucking what?"

Reilly looked away. "Called him 'faggot'," he said softly.

Kyle winced. "Ouch. That's some... heavy stuff."

"Yeah." He shrugged. "Frankly I figure Prescott's pretty lucky. The quiet ones -- when they lose it, they get violent."

"So I've heard."

"So I've fucking _seen_."

"Mm, good point." Kyle winked. "Figures you'd be a fiend for evidence too."

"Duh."

"Anything else bizarre you'd like to share?" he asked.

"Not really."

"Any news of the weird?"

"No. I don't get out enough to know anything about the outside world."

"I've got the Internet." Kyle's fingers twitched; after their first 'date', now more than a month in the past, he'd sworn to cut down on his smoking, avowing it was bad for his lungs.

"And what? What wonders has the Internet showed you lately?"

"Nothing much." Kyle shrugged coyly. "Just that stem-cell research act."

"What about it?"

He smirked. "Finally passed the Senate yesterday."

"And?"

"Bush vetoed it."

Reilly swore. At length.

Kyle looked modestly away.

"Goddamn _motherfucker_," Reilly said in conclusion.

"He's older than your mother. Robbing the cradle much?"

"Point being," Reilly said somewhat serenely, "that Prescott's going to catch wind of it, and then so will Jeb -- it won't matter to Roland, of course, he's not even _working_ in the United States -- and then _all hell's going to break loose_!"

"What for?" Kyle raised an eyebrow. "What's this bill got to do with you?"

"Oh, it's got to do with you too," Reilly said, toying with his glasses. "Do you know what it _means_ that this bill got vetoed?"

"No. Please, explain." Kyle rolled his eyes.

"Gladly." Reilly coughed. "See, the School was established back when, and they got this contract with the military through the FBI. You following?"

"Not at all. Sounds unlikely. But go on."

"Anyway. The contract's due to run out at the end of this year. _But_," Reilly said dramatically, "_because_ the bill got vetoed, we get to keep our contract, because we're the only contractor that can do the kind of research the military wants."

He looked expectantly at Kyle, who laughed. "I didn't follow any of that."

"I didn't expect you to," Reilly said, and sighed. "Look, all that matters is that the School gets to keep its funding now. Which means you get to keep your job, and--"

"Keep living out in the ass end of nowhere until they let me go home?"

"Right." Reilly smiled. "And which means that I--"

"Get to keep working with a bunch of _lunatics--_"

"While doing what I love."

"Mm, good point there."

"So the point is, you can go ahead and plan a fucking _party_, because the School's contract is more likely than not going to get renewed, which means we get to stick out here for _another_ fifteen years."

"And by we I hope you don't mean you and I."

"Of course not." Reilly looked thoughtful for a moment, then added, "I've always thought more of... New York. Nah, that's too crowded. Colorado, maybe."

Kyle burst out laughing. "Don't get ahead of yourself just yet."

"I won't, I won't," Reilly promised. "I mean, I just like to have a plan. In case."

"Mm." Kyle paused. "In case of fucking _what_?"

"In case we start, y' know, _dating_ or something."

"Keep dreaming," Kyle said, grinning.

* * *

Reilly wasn't the only one with a plan.

However, Jeb's plan was rather... _less_ of a contingency sort of thing, to be initiated only if a specific set of circumstances came about.

Although as he explained it, it sort of _was_ that sort of plan, except that the specific set of circumstances had long ago come about, and the plan planned out a long time ago, leaving only the execution.

He was, of course, lying.

Like a rug.

Ter Borcht found it rather endearing, but he could definitely sense how Jeb's tendency to leave planning out the fine details to the last minute could become annoying.

Especially when it involved roping someone else into the final working-out of those details.

He really had to admit, though, that it was quite the plan.

"Fifteen _years_," he said, and shook his head.

Jeb grinned sheepishly. "Seventeen."

"Really?"

"Not something I'd be inclined to forget. Of course," he added, "I've only recently worked some of this out."

"Recently meaning?"

"Past ten years or so." Jeb entered a few keystrokes. "I mean, _comparatively_ recent."

"Comparatively." Ter Borcht watched Jeb type and navigate the network for a moment. "Anything else you want to tell me?"

"Oh, not really, I think I've explained it well enough. Then again..." Jeb paused, hands stationary on the keyboard. "Well, explain it to me. You _are_ part of it, after all."

"I'm honored." He felt, rather oddly, as if he'd been called on to give a presentation in school -- and had neglected to prepare for the damn thing.

"Well, go ahead."

"In essence?"

"I find it rather boring when explained at length," Jeb said, without a hint of sarcasm.

"You designed the Angel Experiment in -- collaboration with an organization studying the inheritance of PBD."

Jeb nodded. "Go on."

"And you deliberately designed the -- oldest recombinant--"

"Maximum, yes."

"You deliberately made her in such a way that she would have PBD."

"Right, go on."

"And then deliberately left her unmedicated and... orchestrated her life in order to bring about stresses and hormonal triggers that would..."

"Result in full-on paranoid bipolar by the age of fifteen." Jeb sighed. "Right on."

"That is _insane._"

"I knew you'd appreciate it." He grinned. "Considering what _I_ thought of _your_ project."

"Which is somewhat justified, given that I've been working on _my_ little flight of insanity for just about as long as you've been working on yours." He paused. "Either way. It's the most brilliantly idiotic thing I've ever heard, and I'd be more than happy to help you carry it out."

"_That_ is what I was hoping to hear," Jeb said, eyes bright. "Now how about that character of yours?"


	25. Four Planners

Chapter Twenty-Five: Four Planners

"_Please_ tell me _you_ don't have a plan, too," Reilly said.

"I'm not much of a planner," Kyle said. "I carry them out. I don't _make_ them."

"OK good," Reilly said, smirking. "Because I'm starting to get an idea, and I might need your help."

"And God knows that's _never_ a good sign," Kyle muttered, then raised his voice and added, "So what's the plan?"

"Well, it's not much of a _plan_ just yet," Reilly said, very obviously stalling for time.

Kyle knew all Reilly's tricks. (Thirteen years of friendship will do that to you.)

"Tell me."

"It's just, like... how everything's so weird lately with -- with Jeb and Roland and everybody. I... kind of want to know what's going on," anticlimaxed Reilly.

(OK, maybe that was a little unjust. Substitute with "Reilly said lamely". No, wait, Kyle reflected: that was so much less lively.)

He shrugged as Reilly looked at him, trying to elicit sympathy with a helpless look on his face.

Kyle. Was. _So_. Not. Caving.

Then he had an idea.

"You mean... like... would being able to see their files help? In any way?"

Reilly gave him a different look, one designed more to elicit generosity. Kyle would know. He'd seen it before.

"Files like what?" Reilly said, looking a little more animated.

"Stuff they save on the network. (Probably security camera footage of them, too, but I'm not sure)," he mused. "Keycard numbers and barcodes..." He trailed off. "You name it, we got it."

"And... hypothetically, what could you _do_ with that kind of information?"

"Oh, steal someone's identity," Kyle said brightly. "See all the stuff they want to keep secret. Nothing big."

"You are a brilliant _bastard_," Reilly breathed.

Kyle grinned. "Told you I'm the smart one."

"So -- just explain how this is intended to work," he said.

"How long have you got to hear me out?"

"Prescott's in a mood today, and I already got all the lab work he wanted done, so... he won't notice if I don't show for a while."

(Which was, from Kyle's experience, probably true. Nominally.)

"All right. Actually I don't need that much time, but you talk a lot." Kyle coughed. "So. What you _do_, knowing all that information, is: you have a look round their files. If you get the keycard barcode (and this is all hypothetical, mind you, not that I'd ever do this, or that I've ever _done_ this in the past), you could, say, access any area they've got clearance to go."

"So let me guess."

"Go ahead."

"Someone here wouldn't be likely to save something to, like, an external hard drive? Or, like, a floppy disk?"

"Normally," Kyle said, "I'd correct you: but before I came _here_ I hadn't seen a floppy disk since, like, high school. OK, maybe college. Flash drives are what you're thinking of?"

"About yea big, plug into a USB port?" Reilly demonstrated, indicating something about the length of his thumb.

"Right on, man. Ever used 'em?"

"A few times. I don't think anyone here would use one."

"'Cause they're old?"

"Pretty much." Reilly grinned. "Although considering the paranoia levels here -- _high_ -- it won't be long until everyone's using them."

"Which means that by asking me to do something like... what we're hypothesizing here... you are in the right place at the right time."

"Surrounded by a bunch of semi-Luddites--"

"At least as far as computers go," Kyle interrupted.

"Just before they wise up and start using flash drives."

"Interrupting here: why do you say 'wise up'?"

"'Cause of what you taught me in middle school."

"Which is?" Kyle said modestly.

"Never, _ever_ save something to your file on the network--"

Kyle couldn't resist completing the sentence. "--or some jackass will fuck around with it."

"Possibly just a well-meaning geek who wants you to learn the wonders of password-locking," Reilly amended.

"Which is the role we're playing here, in a way," Kyle said.

"Not quite," Reilly pointed out. "_We_ don't intend to get caught."

"I don't get caught doing anything unless I _want_ to be," Kyle said.

"Right." Reilly gathered his thoughts into a somewhat more organized herd -- Kyle could practically see him chasing the little bastards with a shepherd's crook -- before he spoke. "So _because_ people here don't save to external hard drives or flash drives..."

"They save things on the network instead." Kyle paused for effect. "Where they're visible to everyone."

"What about private folders?"

"They're not really _that_ private," Kyle mused. "I mean, if we have their keycards, we have their passwords."

"What about if they changed their passwords?"

"You can't," Kyle explained. "It's so it's easy for someone to fix your computer if you muck it up. Also because they assume that no one knows your password, or that if someone does, he's honorable enough to not go digging around in your files."

"Ah. Worried about the ethics?" Reilly said, out-of-the-blue.

"I pirate mp3s," Kyle said perfunctorily, _worried_ by the odd sparkly smile in Reilly's eyes -- before it changed into ordinary good humor, anyway.

If Reilly wanted to know what was going on at the School... maybe he should start with himself?

You know, just a thought.

"Good. Worrying about the ethics now... that'd be a little late, don't you think?" Reilly smiled.

Kyle wasn't much of a planner -- but it probably didn't count as a _plan_ if all he was doing was carrying out somebody _else's_ big idea. Even if he extended it to apply to them.

It couldn't hurt anything, after all.

It might even be... _fun_.

"Yeah," he said. "It's a little late to worry about something like that."

* * *

"I've got nothing," Roland admitted, and Jeb sighed.

"Do you know what I mean by character?" he asked.

"It'd be helpful if you'd explain." Roland crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter: _Make my day._

"See, contingent to the plan, I need... some other people to collaborate with me to carry it out."

"And I'm one of them? I'm touched."

"Well, yes, I need you to help me out here," Jeb admitted.

"But... _why_? What role am I supposed to play?"

"Like I said... Maximum is designed to have PBD. But we have to help it along." Jeb glanced down at the keyboard. "I'm the traitorous authority figure. Which leaves the mad-scientist role to you."

"All right, I can do that."

"Great." Jeb smiled. "Awesome."

"And I have to come up with a character?"

"Obviously. The point here is to play the roles as dramatically as possible, to get the point across as clearly as we can. You have to come up with a character because... well, real people are moral shades of grey, not absolutes. Maximum feels she's on the side of good, incontrovertibly -- or she will, anyway -- and so she needs someone she sees as utterly, irredeemably evil to have conflict with."

"Which is me."

"Correct." Jeb nodded. "Any ideas?"

"Wouldn't hearing voices make her crazier than confronting mad scientists?"

Jeb paused. "...Actually, I like that idea. But even with that, it'll help to have an 'evil' character."

"All right." Roland uncrossed his arms. "So what would that entail?"

"Oh... just all the clichés, really. White coat. Act nefarious. Speak in technobabble..."

"Would an accent help?" Roland interrupted.

"Er... yes..." Jeb said thoughtfully. "Actually that would be great."

"Because, you know, mad scientists are _always_ European."

"Nazis and all."

"Exactly," Roland said, nodding.

"So what kind of accent are you thinking?"

"What do you _think_?" He grinned. "I grew up speaking German. It really wouldn't be that hard to put on a bit of an accent to help you out."

"Great! Of course, we're talking... this'll happen maybe two or three years from now," Jeb added.

"I'll write a script between now and then."

"That's going a little far. Mainly," Jeb said, "I think you'll need improvisation skills to pull this off. Both of us will."

"Hmm..." Roland paused. "Didn't Reilly mention something about doing theater in high school?"

Jeb thought for a moment. "Well, it'd be good to get some... 'professional help' on the matter," he admitted.

"So now we find him," Roland said.

"Now we find him."

The plan was off to a great start, Jeb figured. Or a great middle, really, given that he'd _started_ it nearly... Jesus, it _had_ been seventeen years, hadn't it?

Oh well.


	26. What a Stupid Idea

Chapter Twenty-Six: What a Stupid Idea

"Got anything?"

Contrary to what Reilly had thought, spying on people was _really_ boring.

Kyle shook his head. "_Nada_."

He'd been expecting _something_ to come of all this work -- but so far, they had... well, nothing.

"_Nothing_? C'mon. There must be _something._" Reilly looked over Kyle's shoulder at the laptop screen -- and, once again, had to admit he had _no_ idea what Kyle was doing.

"Nope. Jenny's working on a novel, but..."

"Jenny _receptionist_ Jenny?"

"You know another Jenny here?"

"No." Reilly shook his head. "...Is it any good?"

"Fuck's sake, man, it's not like I _read_ it."

Reilly gave him a _Look_ -- 'Fess up already.

"OK, fine. I had a look. It's not too bad."

He went back to doing... whatever the fuck he was doing with the laptop, and Reilly took the opportunity to get up and stretch his legs.

They were lurking at the back of the ill-used Animal Testing break room -- once again, they were there thanks to the graces of Reilly's security clearance -- which meant that, although there was no coffee, they had a (thin) excuse to be there, as well as the advantage of having no company at just past four-thirty in the morning on a mid-July Sunday.

Reilly wandered over to the window (wired-glass, "just in case") and looked out into the... well, calling it a "yard" would be generous. Despite the heavy use the yard saw in Eraser training (because it was fenced in, it was this yard that got the most intensive use for that purpose), green tumbleweeds still struggled up out of the dust.

He really didn't get how they did it.

Goddamn weeds.

Maybe there was something of value there -- something he wasn't seeing in the resilience of tumbleweeds. Something they could _use_.

Reilly hadn't taken long to acquire the heterodoxy of thought common at the School. Or maybe he hadn't acquired it so much as brought out his natural tendencies -- it was really the one thing that had kept his lazy ass afloat in high school and college, being able to see illogical-seeming answers. If you could do _that_ -- you could do anything.

Case in point: Subject Eleven. Reilly had still been in college when it was created, but once he'd arrived at the School, Reilly had sought out the story of its creation with a _vengeance_, intending to discover and expand on the principles that had gone into its making.

Which he had, after finding out that the world-famous Doctor Batchelder had suffered a weird kind of _psychotic break_ while working on Subject Eleven. (Admittedly, that made it all the more alluring to Reilly. So he had an attraction to doomed things with odd origin stories. So what?)

Of course, he hadn't gone so far as to induce a mental breakdown of his own -- but he _had_ borrowed from and built upon Jeb's _ideas_.

Which brought him right back around to the tumbleweeds. Opportunistic little bastards -- even when they _repeatedly_ kept getting their asses kicked by rampaging wolfmen, the fuckers just refused to stay dead.

There was probably a moral in there somewhere, but damned if Reilly was going to pursue it -- not _this_ early in the morning, anyway. It was... well, OK, so the sun was _just_ starting to (kind of) show its face in the east. But it was still _way_ too early for any kind of philosophizing.

Thankfully, Reilly was interrupted before he could burden the collective unconscious with any more deep thoughts on tumbleweeds.

"Holy _shit_," Kyle said softly, and Reilly half-turned away from the window.

"What?"

"Dude. Come look at this."

Reilly hurried over and had a look.

Miracle of miracles, Kyle had pulled it up (whatever _it_ was) in a form understandable by normal humans -- well, normal humans with a pretty good biochem background, anyway.

"Who the hell is 'R'?" Reilly wondered aloud.

"Keep reading," Kyle said grimly, and tapped the screen with a fingernail, careful not to leave a smudge. "I pulled this out of Batchelder's file on the network. (Totally unencrypted, by the way.) Now, how many 'R's do you know here -- besides you?"

Reilly looked at Kyle, understanding what he meant. "Looks like some kind of ... crazy hormone therapy," he muttered, returning to the document and looking closely at the numbers. "Which would explain quite a bit."

"Nah, man." Kyle scrolled down, pulling more data up on the screen. "Keep reading. It gets weirder."

Reilly skimmed through the remaining data -- with each successive number, a terrible, illogical conclusion was building in his head.

He pushed the laptop back towards Kyle.

"Oh. My. God," Reilly said, cradling his head in his hands.

"Yeah," Kyle said, with a sick little smile. "That's basically what I thought too."

"But... how the hell is that... what the _fuck_?"

Kyle looked at him mildly.

"It's im-fucking-possible!" Reilly said, and then, amending himself. "But... it's what the data says."

"Which means it's possible," Kyle said.

"Yes, but... it's stupidly dangerous! Why in the _hell_ would you _do _this?"

Kyle shrugged. "Beats me. To get results?"

"Well, yes, but -- this could _kill_ him!"

"So could working with a bunch of psycho genetic recombinants," Kyle said. "Dude. Remember who we're talking about here."

"The greatest geneticist of all time and his -- boyfriend," Reilly hissed.

"_Mad scientists._ There's a reason they're called that, y' know."

Reilly stared at him, jaw dropping open. "Kyle. Do you understand how _dangerous_ this is?"

"Not really." He shrugged, impervious. "You are such a _fuckwad, _Reilly. Stop for a moment. You're the one who's always on about putting science before yourself. So tell me. What makes Dr. ter Borcht doing a little experimenting on himself so damn bad?"

Reilly stared at him for a while before finally sputtering, "I... don't know." He fell silent, then burst out, "You're just _not supposed to_!"

"Who says?" Kyle said.

Reilly ran a hand through his hair -- with that, all the fight had gone out of him -- and sighed. "OK. I... I get it."

"Good." Kyle grinned. "'Cause I was totally making that up as I went."

"I suspected as much." Reilly cracked a smile. "Sorry I kind of flipped out on you."

"Nah, it's cool." He shrugged.

Reilly heard footsteps in the hall, and shot a glance at Kyle. "Shit!"

Kyle moved fast, closing the laptop and shoving it under the table onto the seat of the chair across from him.

"We need an excuse to be here, don't we?" he said.

"I have an idea," Reilly said as the footsteps approached the door.

"Please don't let it be illegal," Kyle muttered.

"Only in Utah," Reilly said. "Kiss me."

He had to admit.

It was a pretty good excuse.

The look on Harrison's face when she walked in on them made it even more worth it.


	27. Down The Rabbit Hole

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Down The Rabbit Hole

He was afraid. There was really no point in denying it -- who would ever know?

Since, then, no one was ever going to know, he might as well say it flat out (or think it, anyway) :

He, Roland ter Borcht, was scared out of his mind. Petrified, actually.

Logically, there was no reason for him _not_ to be. What with his own _death_ to worry about (not to mention the other sundry evils that were part and parcel of living in a post-nuclear world) -- well, there was a lot to be afraid of in the world.

Yet, given that he was pretty solid on how and when he was going to die (internal hemorrhaging, about seven and a half months from now), which should have removed his fear of _that_ -- he was somehow still afraid. Not for himself, though. For someone else.

At least this time it wasn't Jeb -- who seemed, now, to be genuinely _happy_ and _stable_ -- no, this time it wasn't Jeb. Because he had a vague idea of how to _help_ Jeb.

No. This time, it had to be Reilly.

Of all people.

There was just something _wrong_ with him -- a kind of brittle, artificial cheeriness in his expression; something ter Borcht couldn't quite quantify in his eyes; the skittering, unobtrusively nervous way he moved -- hell, even the way he was noticeably avoiding ter Borcht.

It all added up to something.

He just couldn't quite figure out _what._

It was irritating that he couldn't place what was wrong with Reilly -- because he had a feeling he knew what it was.

And that scared the hell out of him -- because if it was what he thought it was... well, it was only going to be a matter of time until something went disastrously wrong.

Until then -- well, he'd always been fairly good at fooling himself, and he was doing a decent job convincing himself that the only thing _wrong_ with Reilly was that he had a crush on Jeb -- that he was heartbroken over not being able to _have_ Jeb.

Unfortunately, he'd only be able to keep that up for so long -- eventually, he was going to have to own up to the fact that something had gone seriously awry.

But between now and then, he could, maybe, try to figure out _what_ was wrong.

It would give him something to do.

* * *

"Anything?" Reilly looked over Kyle's shoulder. He kept looking at the laptop screen, and he kept seeing nothing of any meaning.

They'd been at this the whole night, and Reilly still had _no_ idea what Kyle was doing.

Maybe it being so damn late had something to do with that.

"Nothing much," Kyle muttered. "Whole lot of nothing, is what it looks like to me. Technobabble." He smiled, glancing up at Reilly. "Although I'm pretty sure _you_'d understand it."

"Biochem major will do that to you," he said. "Keep doing whatever you're doing. 'Cause I don't understand what you're doing."

"Good. You tell me what the fuck this shit means, I'll keep finding it for you."

"Sounds cool."

"Maybe you should sleep," Kyle suggested, with all the subtlety of a... well, something that wasn't very subtle. Ax murderer, perhaps?

"Nah, I'm fine," Reilly said. "And why do you care? I never see _you_ sleeping."

"'Cause it creeps me out when people watch me sleeping," Kyle said absently. "And you actually have things you need to do in the morning," he added. "I get up whenever I fuckin' want."

"I feel _fine_," Reilly said.

"You should sleep."

"I'll get coffee in the morning," he said, leaning closer to the screen. "What's that?"

"It'd take too long to explain," Kyle said. "When was the last fuckin' time you slept?"

"Couple days ago, I think." Reilly glanced at him. "Why?"

Kyle shook his head. "Go sleep. I'll come find you tomorrow with anything interesting."

"Bull_shit_ you will," Reilly said. "I wanna be here when you find it."

"Go ahead." Kyle shrugged. "Suit yourself. I'm not gonna make you go sleep."

He tapped a few keys.

It really kind of pissed Reilly off that he didn't know what Kyle was doing.

"Hey, cool," Kyle said softly. "Check it out."

"Read it at me," Reilly said, tilting back in his chair.

"I'll summarize." Kyle scrolled down, bringing more of the file he was accessing up on screen. "I'm actually totally not supposed to tell you this, but..."

"Dude, I can keep a secret."

"So can I. Zing!" Kyle smirked and let the silence drag on for a moment before adding, "OK, I wouldn't do that to you."

"Then spill."

"To make a long story short, this big project I've been working on... well, I can't say what the final product's gonna be, but I can tell you what I've been working on. It's this--"

"Let me stop you for a minute," Reilly said, interrupting him. "Put it in normal English words."

"Right. 'Cause it's three in the morning." Kyle blinked and adjusted his ponytail. "Anyway. The thing I'm working on is this... thing that... Basically, it's telepathy."

"_Way_ cool," Reilly breathed. "How's it work?"

"See, I kinda figured you'd want to know," Kyle said. "Unfortunately, I don't know."

"Aww, _man_."

"Dude. I'm a programmer, not a fuckin' biologist. Or a doctor or anything. I don't really know how it works, just it does."

"Can I guess?" Reilly said.

"Feel free. Not like I can tell you if you're right or anything."

"It'd be some kind of... radio thing, I guess," he began, almost to himself. "It'd have to be able to translate radio impulses into chemicals in the brain, things like that..."

"Yeah!" Kyle said, rather suddenly. "That's... kind of what I'm doing."

"The translation part?" Reilly raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah." He crossed his arms.

"Cool."

"Majorly." He waved a hand. "Keep theorizing if you want, or shall I pick up where I left off?"

"Finish what you were saying."

"Right, where was I?" He glanced at the computer screen, then back at Reilly. "Oh yeah. This," he indicated the screen, "is basically a log of what Batchelder did on the system yesterday afternoon."

"Why would we even have that?"

" 'We' don't," Kyle said patiently. "There's a system-wide log of everything everybody does. I asked it to show only what Batchelder did."

"OK, cool. Keep going."

"Anyway." He glanced at the screen again. "Basically it shows me that Batchelder was checking out _my_ files."

"What? Explain."

"OK, so they weren't all _mine_," Kyle said, revising himself. "But he was looking at the project I'm working on."

"Why would he do that?" Reilly wondered aloud. "Subject Eleven has some weird telepathy-like abilities..."

"Maybe... he could be looking for some way to block 'em?"

"Why, though? He left it in Colorado with the other avian-human hybrids."

"Huh." Kyle shrugged.

"So what the hell would he want with telepathy?"

"What the hell would anyone want with the A-bomb?"

Reilly stared at him.

He shrugged. "OK, maybe that was a bad comparison. Point is, he might have some kind of secret motive that we don't know about. Some kind of other reason for wanting telepathy to mess with."

"Wait. So this would make _anyone_ a telepath?"

"Yeah. Anyone who wants a microchip in his brain."

"OK..."

"Or if you just want to talk _at_ someone, anyone who knows the 'number' of someone with a chip in their brain... did that make any sense?"

"Not really," Reilly admitted, and then groaned. "And Christ. Does _everyone_ have to have a secret motive here?"

"There was a _reason_ I compared it to Metal Gear, man."

"The deeper I get into this mess," Reilly said, "the more I start to feel like that metaphor was _really_ apt."

"Don't worry." Kyle shrugged. "It'll get worse."

"How are you so sure?"

"It always does," he said. "There's _always_ more to the story than what you see at first."

"Fuckin' figures." He gestured at the screen. "Keep going."


	28. Please Don't Eat The Chemicals

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Please Don't Eat The Chemicals

For a moment, Kyle wondered if he'd finally gone round the twist -- if he were stark raving mad, that would certainly explain a lot, and leave open the possibility that his best friend's coworkers were normal, respectable people, not mad scientists.

Then he realized that no, he really _was_ watching his best friend cook over a Bunsen burner, plausibility be damned. As well as basic safety precautions -- there was no way that was safe.

"I hope you washed that out," he said, leaning in the doorway and gesturing to the beaker Reilly was currently having a fair go at cooking ramen in.

"How the hell did you get in here?" Reilly said, and it would be redundant to say he was startled.

"I have security clearance for every room in the main building," Kyle said, smirking. He stepped into the lab proper, and the door hissed shut behind him.

"_Why_?" Reilly asked.

"Dunno." He shrugged.

The ramen made an attempt at boiling over, but was foiled by Reilly deftly moving it off the flame for a few seconds.

Kyle shook his head. "I thought you'd learned not to cook in laboratories."

"Apparently not." Reilly grinned and glanced at his watch -- how he managed to do that without setting his arm on fire was beyond Kyle, given that he was holding the beaker upright with a pair of tongs in his left hand.

"Did you at least wash that out?"

"Of course." He turned the gas off and moved the beaker to a potholder lying ready on the counter. "I'm not _stupid_ or anything."

"Stupid is as stupid does -- as I recall, you were the one who set the chem lab on fire junior year."

"That was an accident," Reilly said straight-facedly, snapping apart a pair of disposable chopsticks.

"Sure it was."

"Really. I swear."

Kyle crossed his arms and sighed. If Reilly wasn't going to fess up today that it had been intentional, Kyle might as well stop trying to get him to admit it. He could always try again tomorrow. "So remind me why you're revisiting your ill-spent youth?"

Reilly indicated the computer, and then a spray of file folders on the counter next to it. "I was working on... all that, and I'm kind of behind, so I couldn't stop for a proper lunch."

"I thought I was the slacker?"

"You are." Reilly twirled a strand of ramen. "You just here to talk at me, or d' you have something useful to say?"

"If you don't wanna hear it, I'll just leave now." Kyle took a step towards the door (narrowly avoiding tripping over a chair someone had inconveniently left sitting in the middle of the floor).

"I'm all ears."

"Right." Kyle pulled the chair over and sat down (he would have sat on the counter, but he didn't trust it not to give him chemical burns -- the counter had a suspiciously vindictive look to it, and a good number of equally skeevy-looking splotches and stains on its surface). "D' you want the long version or the short version?"

"Long version. _Duh._"

"No, you don't," Kyle decided.

"Oh, come _on_," Reilly said through a mouthful of sodium-rich noodle.

If nothing else, high school chemistry had taught Kyle just _how_ bad for him ramen really was.

That, and: why not to play with fire; how not to get caught playing with fire; why we don't eat the chemicals; and to wrap it all up, what the _hell_ was in a Twinkie.

Come to think of it, he'd learned quite a bit in that class.

"Nah," he said, "You really don't want to hear the long version, it's all technical and boring and _I_ don't understand half of it."

"Oh, just tell the story," Reilly grumbled.

"I'm building suspense," Kyle said, wishing he had a cup of coffee to sip. Not just for the drama. He could really use the caffeine.

"Fuck suspense." Reilly poked around for the last straggling strands of ramen. "Tell me, damnit."

"OK, fine. Your loss." He sent a further prayer to the gods of coffee. Perhaps they'd smile upon him if he prayed hard enough.

"So..."

"Remember a couple nights ago I told you a little about the project I'm working on?"

"The one I'm not supposed to know about?"

"Yeah, that one." He paused. "Well, I looked up the project specs just now, and--"

"The what now?"

"Specifications. Fuckwad." Kyle cleared his throat. "Anyway. Where was I? Oh yeah. I told you it's telepathy, right?"

"Yeah. That's like the only part I caught."

"Want me to explain how it works?"

Reilly got up and went to rinse the beaker out at the sink, scoring a three-pointer to the trash can with his chopsticks on the way. "Go ahead. I like background noise while I work."

"Oh,_ that's_ encouraging," Kyle muttered.

Reilly sat down in front of the computer and started shuffling file folders. "Either tell the story or don't, your choice."

"Right. So... you've read the files for all the subjects in the Angel Experiment, right?"

"I have 'em right here," Reilly said.

"Then you know about the tracking chips."

"Duh."

"And -- this doesn't relate to the story, I really don't know -- why the _hell_ are they located in the head?"

"Well, getting them in the brain in the first place was tricky, I understand," Reilly said, chewing on the end of his pen. "But they put 'em there 'cause then the subject can't take 'em out by itself. Doesn't really matter exactly where so long as there's no lasting damage, I think."

"So it was pure chance that Maximum's chip was located in her right temporal lobe?"

"I guess so," Reilly said. "The oldest subject, I'm guessing that is?"

"Right on," Kyle said, grinning. "And why you don't know that I'm not going to guess."

"Stress-related brain melting," Reilly said flippantly. "Normally I'd be able to tell you her blood type and last recorded physical statistics too."

"Right. Anyway. 'Cause her brain chip's located there, we're able to... do something I don't really understand 'cause I'm not a biologist, but it sends her brain fake audio input that it thinks it's actually hearing from outside. You follow?"

"I follow," Reilly said.

"Good, 'cause I'm not explaining all that again. Anyway. To _send_ stuff to that chip, we're working on the user interface right now but we kind of _think_ it's gonna be like a phone."

"Awesome," he said absently.

Kyle sighed. "You're not even listening, are you? 'Cause this has applications for you."

"Explain them." He opened a file folder.

"You work with Batchelder, right?"

"Right on, kemosabe."

"He was looking at the project files the other day, so I figure he's got some kind of vested interest in the whole thing."

"Subject Eleven has telepathic powers," Reilly said, shrugging. "If you could use whatever you're doing to _send_ messages, you could use it to _block_ them, hmm?"

"...Yeah, sure," Kyle said dismissively. "If you wanted to undergo _brain_ surgery."

Reilly shrugged. "They're mad scientists. No telling what they would and wouldn't do."

"Anyway. If you could, like, let slip something about all this..."

"And you can't tell him directly why?"

"Why the _fuck_ would Batchelder trust _me_? Dude, he at least _knows_ you."

Reilly looked awkward -- he kind of had a talent for that. "Yeah..."

"So _tell him_," Kyle said impatiently. "You're the master of subtly letting something slip."

"He's a mad scientist, Kyle," Reilly said, flicking through the folder to find the pages he wanted. "Crazy people are _great_ at telling when someone's fuckin' with them."

"He's _on_ his _meds_, fuckwad," Kyle pointed out, quite reasonably -- Jeb _was_ on his meds.

"Sometimes I'm not so sure," Reilly said quietly, and though maybe Kyle wasn't so emotionally adept as his buddy, he was pretty sure he detected an undercurrent of unease and self-doubt running through Reilly's words.

"For Christ's sweet sake, man," Kyle said, and rolled his eyes. "I can understand not being sure like a month ago. Come on. Emotionally, the poor bastard was stranded. He had fuckall _reason_ to take his meds regularly -- who the fuck was gonna care? _But,_" he said emphatically, "_now_ he has someone who _does_ care. He has a _reason_ to take his fucking meds -- because if he doesn't, ter Borcht's gonna kick his ass and _make_ him."

Reilly had gone all tense and quiet, and Kyle had a sudden sense that he'd gone _way_ the fuck beyond the pale.

"Anyway," he said, remembering what he'd been getting at, "just tell him."

"Will do," Reilly said, voice tightly controlled -- what the hell was he trying to hide from _Kyle_, of all people? "Don't you have somewhere to be?"

"Yeah," Kyle muttered. _Anywhere but here_, he thought. He smiled weakly. "I... actually have some work I could be doing on the project."

"Then get to it." Reilly laughed, and Kyle reminded himself why he'd thought of being a poet once when he automatically thought of the laugh as _shattered_, _strained_. "You know what they say. Time waits for no man."

"Yeah. See you."

As he stepped out into the hallway, Kyle wondered what had ever possessed him to get involved with this bunch of lunatics. Watching a complex plan unfold from the outside was all fine and dandy, that was why the Metal Gear games were so damn popular, but -- then he'd had to get _involved_.

And then things had gone all to hell...

He wondered if anyone at Shadow Moses had ever thought that. Like Sniper Wolf or someone, after the wheels within wheels started turning and everyone's different complex plans started rolling along, colliding with each other to bring out carefully calculated results. And all they could do was watch, because they had no plan of their own.

If that were true, if someone else had had these thoughts before... he might not feel so damn _alone_.

He might be caught in plans beyond his comprehension, in the making for almost as long as he'd been alive... but if that were true, at least he'd have a spiritual guideline to follow.

As it was, Kyle felt like he'd fallen into a parallel universe.

Maybe he had.

You could never tell, with these kinds of things -- and anyway, he already worked with _mad scientists_.

Parallel universes would just be the next logical step, really.


	29. Old Sins

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Old Sins

"If this doesn't work," Kyle said, pausing for dramatic effect, "you _owe_ me."

"Oh, for God's sake," Reilly said. "Just open the damn door." He punched Kyle playfully in the shoulder. "Before I die of boredom out here."

"You have _no_ appreciation for drama," Kyle said, miffed, and flashed the stolen (in a manner of speaking) keycard at the lock.

"Just pray he has clearance," Reilly muttered.

The green light of 'Yes, he does' flashed on the automatic lock, and Kyle grinned as the door hissed open. "_Batchelder_ not have clearance to go somewhere?"

"Well, you never know," Reilly said, and then added, "I'm still not so hot on stealing his ID."

Kyle sighed, and for added disdainful impact, rolled his eyes. "It's not technically _stealing_. And given your chosen career path... it's a little odd to doubt someone else's ethics. Pot calling the kettle black much?" He stepped into the lab and looked at Reilly. "Coming?"

"I just mean... what if we get caught?"

"We won't." Kyle glanced around, then grabbed Reilly by the front of his shirt: If you don't get in here, I'll _drag_ you in here. "Come _on_."

"OK!" Reilly stepped inside, and the long-suffering door hissed shut behind him, returning (relative -- after all, Kyle was there) silence to the lab.

"Anyway," Kyle said, "_my_ fingerprints are on the keycard. Anyone asks, _I'm_ the one who made the fake card--"

"Technically, you were."

"-- and persuaded you in here."

Reilly looked at him skeptically. "So the plan if we get caught -- the excuse is that you _seduced_ me."

Kyle grinned. "Essentially, yeah."

"Brilliant," Reilly said. He was probably being sarcastic, but... well, with him (especially of late) you could never really tell.

"So." Kyle put an arm around Reilly's shoulders. "What the hell _is_ this place?"

Reilly took a look around.

"It's a lab," he ventured. "In the Animal Testing building."

"No shit," Kyle said roughly. "I mean -- what did people _do_ in here? What was this place _used_ for?"

Reilly hadn't the faintest idea.

Maybe it helped that he hadn't worked here, in this lab.

Objective perspective and all that.

He twisted away from Kyle and walked along the counter by the wall, running his hand along the surface. God. It _reeked_ of disinfectant -- more so than usual for the School.

_What happened here_?

It was just a counter, really. Matte black. Splotched with the irrepressible remains of chemical stains.

And here -- stretching languidly up onto the wall -- the shadow of a _different_ chemical.

Or rather, an assortment of chemicals.

_What happened here_?

Reilly brushed a hand over the stain. Faded -- he estimated the age at maybe three or four years -- but still true to color, true to type.

Rust-red, faded brown.

Something like a twisted artist's pigments -- a splotch of ink from the pen of someone determined to make a truly _binding_ contract.

In other words:

It was a splotch of dried blood, irregular in shape, covering enough surface area for Reilly to know this had been a serious wound, but not enough for it to have been instantly fatal, and by the faded color, at _least_ a year old.

It was probably _human_ blood, too.

"_Ew_," Kyle said appropriately, having suddenly teleported from one side of the room to the other (or at least that was how it seemed), and Reilly jumped.

"Jesus! Don't... sneak up on me like that."

"You're the one who always told me not to be so damn loud," Kyle said, leaning over Reilly's shoulder and peering at the stain.

"That was a long time ago," Reilly said, crossing his arms.

Kyle reached out a hand and brushed his fingertips against the stain -- apparently, touching a bloodstain isn't a temptation anyone can resist. "Is this really... _blood_?" he murmured.

"Well, I have no way to test it here," Reilly said, "but I _think_ it is."

"Why?"

"Well -- _look_ at it." Reilly gestured at the stain. "It's the color dried blood should be. It's flaky like dried blood should be."

"If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck..." Kyle said, and then made exaggerated gagging noises when he saw just how damn _big_ the stain was. "Christ. Wonder who this poor bastard was. You think it could be some experiment's blood?"

"No, I don't think so," Reilly said meditatively. "Hmm..."

"Hmm what?"

Reilly looked up sharply from considering the counter. "That desk over there. Go check the drawers."

"Yessir."

And he did -- Kyle might have a flair for sarcasm, but he was really quite reliable.

Reilly spun to face towards him, leaning back against the counter as an _idea_ sprang to mind; 'idea', hell -- this was an _Idea_.

Something _big._

"I just remembered," Reilly said quickly, explaining as the words came to mind, uncaring if he actually formed sensible sentences, "this was Jeb's old lab."

"Here? In Animal Testing?" Kyle fussed with one of the drawers for a moment -- it seemed to be stuck.

"_Here_. _Right here_," Reilly said, now talking mostly to himself -- if Kyle had a part in this conversation, it was as a listening ear only. "This is where he created the Angel Experiment -- well, where he designed the subjects, anyway, the experiment itself was a joint creation. The Erasers too, I think. Found anything?" he added abruptly.

Kyle shook his head and slammed the drawer shut, opening the next almost absently, head tilted to hear what Reilly had to say.

He found it rather gratifying -- he _liked_ the spotlight.

"The Angel Experiment," he murmured to himself, and then caught back on to his old threads of thought, knitting them back together with a rapidity and agility that even scared _him_ a little: how wonderful the human mind, and yet how dangerous when damaged.

"Found something," Kyle said.

"What is it?" Reilly said, speaking softly to avoid disturbing the fragile forming crystals of this idea, this _Idea._

"Desk calendar."

"What year?" he said, struck by the feeling of a possibility dancing just before him.

"2001," Kyle reported.

The year of Ari's birth.

It struck him suddenly: Subject Eleven was almost exactly nine months younger than Ari.

The chain of occurrences, hearsay, and... well, all the other nebulous _stuff_ -- suddenly knitted itself together. He saw faces where there had been a vase, a dog where he had seen random spots of black and white.

There was a pattern in the chaos.

"_Reilly_," Kyle said sharply, and he glanced up, entranced by the connections he saw. Was still seeing. "Talk to me."

He waved a hand, stitching the delicate threads into each other. Was that too mangled a metaphor?

"_Reilly_!" Kyle said, and suddenly he'd taken Reilly by the shoulders. "Tell me what you see."

"Jeb's wife. Ari. Subject Eleven," he said. "All of them are connected."

"Explain," Kyle said, letting go of him.

He waved a hand dreamily. "Connie. Jeb's wife. She was pregnant with Ari when Jeb started working on Subject Eleven. He..." Reilly paused -- he could _see_ it all. "The Angel Experiment... Subject Eleven was to be the... crowning achievement. He spent a _lot_ of time working on her design."

He took a breath, visualizing it all. Beautiful pattern.

Just beautiful, the way it all led to the conclusion. Intertwined lives.

So elegant the pattern they made, interweaving with each other...

"He... worked himself into a nervous breakdown, one might say," Reilly said, with the feeling of an Oracle in reverse, peering into the past. "After Ari was born -- a few weeks after Ari was born, Connie confronted him. Here. In his lab. He was working on Subject Eleven's final designs."

Why could he see it so clearly -- and yet not have the words to describe it?

"Why is there _blood_ on the wall, Reilly?" Kyle asked.

"No." He'd seen it wrong -- suddenly the grey mist lifted out of the way and he _saw_. "No. The Erasers. But Subject Eleven was... Subject Eleven's design was complete. He was... I'm not sure... but there was an Eraser here. With him. I think he was running tests." He closed his eyes. "They argued. Connie and Jeb. And... and something happened." His voice faltered.

"And she died," Kyle said, closing the circle, completing the story.

"Yes."

"She died."

"Here," Reilly said.

"Now, exactly _how_ much of that is cold, hard fact?"

"Connie is dead. Prescott thinks Jeb murdered her. Ari is nine months older than Angel." He reeled off the litany with ease.

"So. You're telling me Batchelder had some kind of psychotic break because he was working on the Angel Experiment?"

"Yes." Reilly nodded. "Subject Eleven's design is brilliant -- but flawed. It... it runs on a different logic -- functioning logic, yes, but not _sane_ logic."

"So Batchelder wasn't in his right mind when he designed her?"

"Correct." He nodded again.

"And... while he was... being crazy -- he flipped out and killed his wife?"

"No," Reilly said. "It was, you might say... a lab accident. It was the Eraser. They're very dangerous."

"No offense, but... man, I don't believe a _word_ of that."

"That's all right," he said quietly. "I don't have any proof."

"Damn right you don't." Kyle sighed. "Look, it sounds really cool and all, but unless you can back it up..."

"I'll find a way," Reilly said.

"Yeah, you would," Kyle said, and glanced around. "Look, there was some other stuff in that drawer. I'm gonna take it, OK?"

"Yeah," Reilly said. He still felt rather... out of touch. Exhausted.

"We need to get out of here," Kyle said.

"Bad vibes," Reilly said.

"Right on, man. So let's scram. Maybe you won't be as crazy once we're out of here."

Kyle grinned.

Reilly saw the sprawling bloodstain, even though he'd turned away. It remained before him.

_What are you trying to say_?

Insanity, to address a stain that way.


	30. Nanomachines Did It All

Chapter Thirty: Nanomachines Did It All

"D' you want a box?" Kyle said, giggling.

"Shut. Up." Reilly pulled himself further along the dropped ceiling. "This is hard enough without you distracting me." He paused for breath. "And why the hell would I need a box?"

On the other end, Kyle dissolved into helpless giggles. "Because you're Snake."

"Like hell I am," Reilly said. "I don't _smoke_."

"Unless you're on fire." Silence. "Anyway. You should be over the lab right now. Can you take a look?"

"Remind me _why_ the hell I agreed to do this?" Reilly said.

"I wanted to play Otacon." Kyle snickered. "You lost Rock, Paper, Scissors. Dem's the breaks."

"Never say that again." Reilly pulled up a ceiling tile and peered down. "Well, it's a lab, all right."

"OK. Tell me what you see."

"It's a fucking _lab_."

"...You are such a _horrible_ adventure hero."

He let the tile thunk back down. "Yeah. Well, this isn't one of your _Japanese animes_."

"I'm hurt," Kyle said. The sarcasm, at least, came through loud and clear.

"Dude. It's just a fuckin' lab. What am I looking for here?"

"Haven't the faintest," Kyle said.

"I am going to come back and _kick your ass_," Reilly vowed.

"OK, OK," Kyle said, laughing. "We're looking for the old Eraser lab, right? So I'm thinking animal crates, maybe."

"Reeking of blood?"

"Yeah, that might be it. At the least, it'll be a hell of an interesting story."

"Right." Reilly lifted up the ceiling tile again and shifted it aside. "Am I gonna get caught on a surveillance camera if I drop in now?"

"A _surveillance camera_?"

"Knock it off, chucklefuck. Am I on tape?"

"Right, right, right. Just trying to lighten the mood..." Kyle tapped some keys on his laptop. Why the hell could Reilly hear that through the headset? They'd have to tinker with the sensitivity. "Doesn't look like it. If you are, who's gonna care?"

"Right on." Reilly peered down into the lab. "Just hope I don't break something."

"Always a good way to go."

He slipped out of the ceiling, landing hard on the tile floor below. "Oh _motherfucker_!"

"You dead?" Kyle asked.

"Always the sensitive one," Reilly said. "No. Nothing's broken, either."

"Good. Now look around."

"Still a fuckin' lab."

"As opposed to a normal one," Kyle muttered.

"Exactly." Reilly took a breath. "_Reeks_ of blood."

"Oh, that's a bad sign," Kyle said.

"No shit?" He breathed in through his mouth. Much better. "Damn." _I'll get used to it eventually, I'll get used to it eventually..._

"Yeah. If it reeks, that means the blood's fresh. That or it's psychosomatic."

"So either I'm fucked and about to die by wolfman," Reilly quipped, "or I'm going nuts. _Fab._"

"Such is life," Kyle riposted. _Is that even a verb?_ Reilly wondered.

"Such is _my_ life."

"This is your life?"

"Quit with the puns," Reilly said, mock-dramatically. "I think I'm gonna die."

"Good, 'cause I'm running out of material." Kyle realized what he'd said. "I mean. Bad that you're gonna die. Good that I can stop punning."

"Yeah, I got that."

"You got that, huh?"

"If I were there," Reilly muttered into the headset, glancing around, "I would _slap you_."

"I know, I know, _you're_ Snake," Kyle said. "I just couldn't resist."

"Poor Impulse Control?"

"Shut up." He snickered. "Can you locate where the blood smell is coming from?"

"Talk about a sudden switch of tone," Reilly muttered, taking a shallow breath through his mouth. "Yeah. The puddles of blood everywhere."

"OK." Kyle paused. "Now. I need you to bend down and touch the blood."

"I ain't doing that. There's... skin and hair and shit in it."

"Just do it," Kyle said serenely.

"Nike?" Reilly hesitantly brushed his fingertips against one stain, on the countertop next to him. "OK. Touching it. Be glad this shit's hands-free."

"I am. Describe it to me."

"Um... it's all dried out and crusty. Kinda tacky in places."

"OK." Kyle let out a breath, making the headset crackle. "You're not about to die via wolfman, that blood's pretty old."

"Good to know. So I'm going nuts, then?"

"Yep."

"That explains the _entire_ plot of these bloody games." Reilly looked away from the countertop, around the lab. Which had the appearance, oddly, of just having been deserted -- and this was odd because normally, when a geek in a dusty flannel shirt and jeans drops through your ceiling, the natural impulse is _not_ to vacate the room.

"Don't get too into character, kiddo," Kyle said amiably.

"I won't if you stop calling me that."

"Say what? Why?"

"It's creepy. And that's what Jeb used to call Ari."

"Oh, ew. Sorry about the creep factor, I'll call it quits."

Reilly took the opportunity afforded by Kyle's shutting up and yanked open a pair of cabinets. Nothing. It figured.

"So... speaking of Ari, how's your little buddy been?"

"Didn't you come and see him a few weeks back?"

"Well, yeah. Like, how is he doing _now_."

He yanked open the next pair of cabinets. Some loose papers. He pulled them out, started flicking through them. "He's doing pretty good. Prescott wants to move him into regular Eraser quarters, but Harrison said no. They're kind of arguing over it."

"Well, at least he's not dead," Kyle muttered. "Found anything?"

"Some papers. And don't be such a Negative Nancy."

"Will do, cap'n. What do they say?"

"I'll bring 'em back with me."

"Sounds good." Kyle paused. "Has Jeb been to see Ari yet?"

"Not that I know." Reilly put the papers on the countertop and stood up. "Poor kid's all torn up about it."

"He's five, right?"

"Yeah." Reilly opened another pair of cabinets. "Thinks his dad doesn't love him anymore, from what I can tell."

"Why doncha make Jeb visit him?" Kyle asked.

"Dude. I'm a lab tech."

"You're, like, his therapist."

"Not in any official capacity. Found someone's notes in this one," he added, taking a stack of manila folders out of the cabinet. "Wonder why they were hidden away here."

"Good question," Kyle mused. "What are they on?"

"Erasers." _Fuckin' figures._ Seemed like Reilly couldn't get away from the human-lupine hybrids no matter how hard he tried.

"Huh. That's keen. Bring those back with you, too."

"Will do." He set them on the countertop. Getting back to the storage closet where he'd left Kyle was gonna be _such_ a fuckin' bitch.

"That poor kid..."

"One more thing to add to the list of problems we're lookin' to solve," Reilly said, opening another set of cabinets (the last, as it happened).

"Hopefully all that stuff you're bringin' me will help," Kyle said.

Reilly laughed. "You know what?"

"What?"

Reilly glanced at the stack of manila folders, then the door. "I can just walk right out the door. You don't need a keycard to get out."

"Really?" He had the feeling Kyle was falling asleep on the other end. Whatever.

"Yeah. 'Cause that would be horrible design."

"Dude, we have dropped ceilings that _you_ can comfortably fuck around in. Don't put us in for the 'well-designed mad scientists' lairs' competition just yet."

"Damn. Just when I was counting on the prize money." Reilly looked around. (Still reeked of blood in the lab, but he'd stopped noticing it fuckin' _ages_ ago -- if he hadn't, he suspected he'd have grossed Kyle out throwing up in the sink.) "Think I've got everything from here. I'm gonna come back to meet you."

"You can't do that! The future will be changed! You'll create a time paradox!"

"You're such a Negative Nancy." Reilly sighed. "Be there in a sec."

"I eagerly await you."

"Oh, don't sound so _thrilled._"

He shut the cabinet doors before he left.


	31. Insert Song Lyric Here

Chapter Thirty-One: Insert Song Lyric Here

It was all so... _strange_.

Yes. Strange was more or less the word for it. Or at least it came close to approximating how contradictory he actually felt about the whole thing: detached and emotionally involved, eager to see it through and apprehensive of the results.

Perhaps that was a little closer to how he felt about it all: _afraid_. Which he had every reason to be, if you looked at it from a factual, objective point of view -- he was risking his life here, and the odds were very much against him.

With this, though, he couldn't even _approximate_ objectivity (which was frightening in itself -- he'd always been able to dissociate his own personal emotions from himself and the situation whenever they became inconvenient).

Oh, he'd been able to at first -- for a while, he could almost pretend he was just someone... normal. What a comforting thought, being able to make himself believe he was fundamentally the same as he had always been. Hell, given that he'd had to go off medication (and yet, somehow, hadn't yet experienced major symptoms of a relapse), he was really closer to (what he considered) normal than he'd been in a long time. Too long, really.

He'd actually _liked_ it for a while. He found normalcy quite comforting.

But reality's always fast to reassert its presence in the world, and now... well. It was becoming obvious that something had _changed_ about him.

Thankfully, it wasn't immediately obvious (to anyone who didn't already know) _what_.

For a while, even he'd been able to ignore the fact that (just spit it out, Roland, you've still got seven months left to go) he was -- pregnant.

It wasn't as if it were terribly hard to ignore. He felt roughly the same as he always had -- well, except for the first few weeks after he'd gone off his medication, when he'd felt so unbalanced. (His guess as to why his symptoms had stopped was that the different hormones he was now producing had some kind of effect on PBD. Although he had no way to back that up. Or to test it.)

But other than that? He felt nothing really different about himself. (Well, save the bloody obvious -- _psychologically,_ that is, he felt more or less the same.)

Or, well, he had until a week or so ago.

There was something about waking up and immediately feeling sick to his stomach that had really put the kibosh on ter Borcht's (rather feeble, anyway) attempts to tell himself that everything was _fine_, and he was still the same Roland ter Borcht who'd made the stupid _fucking _decision to do this almost two months ago.

It really didn't help that he felt... _watched_.

Oh, he knew there were security cameras. He'd gotten used to _that_.

Just -- wherever he went in the School, he always felt like someone was _watching_ him. Not even in the way Jeb joked about -- oh, there's Doctor Batchelder, wow, gee, did you hear about his recombinant-DNA experiments?

Take a picture, it'll last longer.

For one thing, he wasn't _that_ well known -- he'd probably made it into the textbooks, but not as a _face_, just as one of a litany of names students were required to memorize for the test. Whenever the test happened to be.

(He rather suspected that he wouldn't be _on_ the tests they gave in intro to... _whatever_ nowadays, given how hard to spell his name was. _Really_.)

But he felt like... like everyone _knew_ him. If not what exactly was going on with him -- what _precisely_ he'd come to the School to do -- he had a sinking feeling that everyone and his dog knew what he'd become to Jeb.

Which probably wasn't going to end well.

OK, so most of the people there were too oblivious to _care_ (beyond the obvious "So you're dating _Dr. Batchelder_" shock-and-awe factor), but...

Well. It was Prescott that worried him.

Ter Borcht, honestly, hadn't liked him from the get-go. He just had an _aura_ of nastiness -- he seemed _cold_, that was it.

That didn't worry ter Borcht so much as it made him nervous -- which was really the same thing anyway, wasn't it? Part of the mess of complex reasons he'd chosen the School as the location where the subject (at the point when he'd made these plans, he _definitely_ hadn't foreseen being the subject himself) would spend the duration of the pregnancy (And that all made it sound so delightfully objective. Like it wasn't actually happening to him) was Prescott's experience with ectopic pregnancies. And that was as close as one could come to an expert on male pregnancy: an expert on another sort of abnormal pregnancy.

Whether ter Borcht liked him or not -- whether or not he was a decent human being in the end -- Prescott had the skill and experience ter Borcht's project needed. Or at least the skill and experience that the project required to see ter Borcht through its completion alive.

OK, so strictly speaking all that had to be accomplished was a result of _some_ kind. Whether that was his unexpected death from complications of some sort before the fetus even reached term, or his _expected_ death at some point soon after the delivery...

(Good God, it all sounded so _morbid_ when he thought of it that way. But it was really a foregone conclusion: if he _survived,_ he would be surprised.)

...all he needed to melodramatically deem the experiment a success was a _result_. Of some kind. It really didn't matter what (although, given that the result was likely to be his death...); he just needed something to _happen_.

Which it most assuredly was, he thought, doggedly hanging on to the thought that if he pretended he didn't feel horrible, it would eventually start being true. Whether or not he liked it, though, his body was changing. And it was really only going to get worse from here on out.

He was going to put up with it, though. For the sake of this child, if nothing else...

Fate giggled to itself and popped a bowl of popcorn. This was going to get _interesting._

Scientific Progress showed up unexpectedly, but it was all right, it brought chips and dip. Yes, it agreed, this was going to be one _hell_ of an experiment.


	32. Voices In Your Head

Chapter Thirty-Two: Voices In Your Head

Jeb sighed and toyed with his pen. He was having trouble working out the exact logistics of this all... and he knew that at some point he was going to have to track down the programmer whose files he'd gotten this idea from and ask for his help.

He doodled a running stick figure on the pad of Post-It notes in front of him. Frowned down at it. Added angry eyebrows, and a spout of flame. Erased the fire and redrew it. Better. He'd never been any great shakes at drawing.

Fuck it, he decided, crumpling up the Post-It note and throwing it in the recycle bin (the School was nothing if not environmentally conscious, after all). There would be no point in waiting to ask, so he might as well hunt down the programmer now and get it over with.

He got up from his desk, locking the computer out of sheer force of habit and thinking: he'd always been told it was better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission, which should logically mean he shouldn't have to ask the programmer for help at all.

But Jeb wasn't much for computers, so he'd need _someone_'s help... and who better than the primary designer himself?

After all (as he had uncomfortably discovered from the other side of the equation), it's a lot easier to use a technology you don't understand when you have the designer on hand as a resource.

And as intelligent as he was, he just didn't _get_ this whole radio microchip... thing. It confused him; it didn't make _sense_. _How the hell was that even supposed to work?_ he'd wondered the first time he'd accessed the files (well, before he decided it didn't really matter to him -- he just needed it to do what he wanted it to).

Well, he'd get a chance to find out now. Or soon, at any rate.

It was guaranteed to be interesting, no matter how much he actually _understood_ of it all: being that the programmer was Kyle (or at least, Kyle was _one_ of the programmers working on this intriguing little project), well... it could only get more fascinating from here on out.

Jeb rounded the corner. It's never hard to find a programmer when he's not at work -- check the lounge and check the smoking area. If he's not in either place, he's sleeping, and shouldn't be disturbed.

Well, assuming that the programmer you're looking for is male. Which Kyle was.

He shook his head. Maybe he needed to get more sleep.

But it was beginning to seem like there was something to the idea that the situation Jeb was going to put Kyle in was similar to the one that Jeb himself had been in not so long ago -- the one that he was still in, if you turned the lights down lower and looked at it funny.

They were similar situations, after all -- both of them people who'd created something that other people wanted to use.

Except Jeb had been forced to give up something of his vision to see it put into use, to see it in _action_ and living color -- and he didn't really want that to happen to Kyle.

Jeb just didn't think of himself as the kind of person who would do that. Who would ruin someone else's dream like that.

_Then again,_

said a small quiet voice in his head,

_you left Maximum alone. In the house in __Colorado__. She wanted a family._

_I gave her that,_ he thought in response. Kyle wasn't in the lounge. Peering outside, he saw a vaguely familiar figure leaning against the wall, one heel kicked up against the surface. _To the best of my ability, I gave her that._

_And then you took it away,_ the voice responded (and maybe, he thought, he was finally losing it -- in a distracted, distant way, he filed this thought away as proof of Roland's observation: hearing voices -- or _voice_, in this case -- tended to make one feel a bit... _less than sane_).

_I had to come back,_ he thought, and realized it was probably pretty useless to argue with something that wasn't even _real_ -- not to mention that, in all likelihood, it was just a fragment of his own personality that he'd dissociated from himself.

And, thankfully, he was spared its response when Kyle cracked an eye open to glare at him, cigarette dangling weightlessly from his lips.

"What d' you want?" Kyle said around the cigarette (Jeb didn't get how he could pull that off).

"Talk to you," Jeb said tersely, unwilling to waste more words than necessary on Kyle before Kyle started talking back.

The voice remained silent as Jeb spoke. He was grateful -- he really wasn't in a mood for verbal sparring with parts of his own personality at the moment.

"About what?" Kyle said, reasonably quite suspicious.

"That project you're working on," Jeb said.

"Which one? The one I'm not supposed to talk about to anyone without the proper clearances?"

"Yeah." Jeb cracked a smile. "That one."

"You got the clearances?"

"I founded this place," Jeb said quietly. "I have clearance to know about everything that goes on here."

Kyle cackled and took a drag. "Yeah. Sure you do, sunshine."

It was Kyle's abrasiveness that reminded Jeb of himself when he was younger, he thought. Something about that unwillingness to cave to other people's expectations.

He could almost admire it.

"Look," Jeb said. "I know what the project is about. I know what it's designed to accomplish. I want..." He sought for the right phrasing to convey the meaning he wanted. "...to give you the opportunity to test it."

"Doesn't sound too bad."

Jeb smiled. He had him -- Kyle was just as questionably ethical a creature as anyone at the School. Sure he had ethics. They were just flexible.

"All right," Jeb said. "Let me explain all this, then."

* * *

It really didn't take too long to explain, he discovered. Pity. It all seemed so grand when it was in his head.

When he'd finished, Kyle sighed and kicked up a rooster-tail of dust with a casual sweep of his shoe. "So I'm making someone hear voices in their head?"

"That's what your project was designed to do."

"Cool." Kyle shrugged. "I'm game for it."

"All right," Jeb said. "So we'll talk again later?"

"Yeah, man. My smoke break's over. Back to work for me." He smiled. "See you."


	33. Undone

Chapter Thirty-Three: Undone

Jeb was enjoying his first decent night's sleep in what felt like far too long -- and, of course, then reality kicked him in the shins, demanding that he come outside with it for a friendly chat.

In other words, he was awoken by someone knocking on his door. (He _owned_ an alarm clock. Why wouldn't reality ever settle for messing with him through _that_?)

He glared at the clock in question. Half-past seven. "What is it?"

"...need your help," said a muffled, ominously familiar voice.

Jeb sat up, rubbing his eyes. "Roland?"

"Oh, just come out here already," he said, sounding... what? Impatient? _Hurt_?

Jeb scrambled out of bed and went to the door. After turning the doorknob the wrong way (twice), he caught on and clawed the door open, expecting to see... he didn't know exactly what he was expecting to see, but it wouldn't be something good. "Are you all right?"

He hadn't been expecting to see a somewhat irate-looking, but otherwise just _fine_, Roland standing at his door.

"Yes. I'm fine." He smiled fleetingly, and toyed with his glasses. "It's Reilly," he said at last.

"What about him?" Jeb realized, belatedly, that he must look a complete mess, and stealthily tried to smooth his hair down with his hand. He always got bedhead, no matter how he tried. (Likewise -- oh dammit, once he'd started thinking it he couldn't stop -- Ari.)

"Dr. Prescott hasn't seen him today, and neither has Kyle," said Roland, shifting slightly from foot to foot.

"It's six in the morning, Roland," Jeb said. "He might not be awake." _I'm still not._

"The point being that no one's seen him since yesterday morning."

"Oh." Now _there_ was a problem. Possibly not one that warranted getting him up at six in the morning on a Saturday unexpectedly. But a problem nonetheless.

"Dr. Prescott was busy, but he said -- he thought that someone ought to go check on him." Jeb read between the lines: _Everyone's worried about him, but not enough to care. Except for me. And you, maybe._ "And... Reilly trusts you."

_So he won't freak out as much if it's me that shows up out of nowhere._ Jeb sighed. "OK. Can I shower first?"

"Be my guest," Roland said, smirking.

* * *

Jeb knocked on Reilly's door, aware of the wet hair sticking obstinately to his collar and neck. _I need a haircut._

Roland was hovering nearby, and Jeb still couldn't quite suppress a feeling that something had gone wrong. But now it wasn't Roland his subconscious suspected something was wrong with -- it was Reilly.

Jeb knocked again. "Hey. You in there?"

He listened for an answer that didn't come. But he heard _something_ inside the room -- a small rustling noise. Like sheets moving against each other. Or, if you were thinking of things it couldn't be, like autumn leaves caught in a dust devil -- a pale, dead sound, soft and fading.

He decided it was sheets, and called out again.

"Reilly?"

Another rustling noise, followed by a suspiciously sudden stillness. As if someone wanted to convince him that nope, there was no one in here, go somewhere else.

He wasn't fooled -- he'd tried the same tactic before, on other people.

"It's Jeb."

Silence. He imagined he heard someone breathing.

It was entirely possible he _did_ imagine it, but he chose to believe it anyway.

"I know you're in there, Reilly." Was that too threatening? "People were worrying about you."

Silence, but he definitely heard the rustling noise again.

Jeb cleared his throat. His mouth had gone all dry. Probably the stress, although there was always the possibility it was a late-to-develop side effect. _Fuck_. "Reilly... we need you."

_Rustle._ He was pretty sure he heard a voice, Reilly's:

"...not you..."

But it was soft and thin, like the autumn-leaf sound of the sheets rustling.

He wasn't sure he'd heard it at all.

Nevertheless he went on.

"Reilly, I'm gonna come in now," he said, and tried the doorknob.

It opened, and for some reason, and in some place very far from where he was, he was surprised.

The room was dark, and that was the first thing he noticed.

The second thing was that he couldn't see Reilly for a moment. It looked like an empty room, until he heard the sheets rustle again.

And he _saw_ the blankets on the bed move, and after a moment the vision centers of his brain worked a little mundane magic, and he thought _Oh, it's Reilly._

Reilly was curled up on his side in bed, covered in blankets and facing away from the door.

Jeb kicked the door shut.

Reilly didn't move, but he spoke.

"What're you doing here?" said his voice, and because Jeb couldn't see his lips move (he didn't want to risk crossing the mess on the floor to get to the other side of the room), it sounded like it was speaking out of the air.

"Reilly," Jeb said, "It's Jeb..."

"I got that part," said Reilly's voice softly. "What are you doing here?"

Reilly's voice, Jeb noticed, sounded... odd. As if it took a lot of effort for him to assemble the words he was saying.

"I'm..." Jeb faltered. "People are worried about you," he said, starting over. "I just came to see if you're all right."

"Yeah," Reilly's voice said. "I'm OK."

"You sure?" He reminded Jeb of his own lowest periods -- but Jeb couldn't remember what he'd wanted people to say to him, the words that, if someone had spoken them, would have made him say _No, I'm not OK_ or _Actually, I feel terrible._

"I'm sure." Reilly turned over and sat up, bracing himself on one arm.

He looked _sick_ -- pale and maybe a little gaunt, with dark shadows under his eyes.

But he smiled. "See? I've just got a virus. I'll be OK in no time."

"You... OK. If you say so." Jeb smiled back, and looked at Reilly's hand where it was pressed against the mattress. There was something about it... something.

Reilly kept smiling. "That's it. You can leave now."

"OK," Jeb said, and did what everyone had done for him, what he'd wished they wouldn't do: left.

He shut the door after himself, smiled politely at Roland. "Says he has a virus."

Roland nodded. "False alarm, I guess."

"Yeah. I guess." Jeb adjusted his glasses. "I'm gonna go fool around in the lab, if you don't mind."

"See you around." Roland walked off, in the opposite direction. _Wait, no, stop,_ Jeb didn't say. _Come back here. I need you._

He sighed and found himself reaching to adjust his glasses again. Damn nervous habit. The lenses were dirty, and so were his...

Fingernails.

"_Shit_," he said aloud, mostly for effect. It had been something about Reilly's fingernails. Something had been caked under them -- something dark-looking, though he hadn't been able to make out its exact color.

He had his suspicions about what it was, though.

_Probably blood_, supplied his unconscious, unnecessarily.

He made off towards the lab, distracted, no longer sure what kind of work he meant to do.


	34. From the Inside

Chapter Thirty-Four: From the Inside

_You're worthless._

_What are you good for?_

Reilly shut his eyes tightly.

"You're not real," he hissed.

_You're a failure._

_Fucking idiot._

_You can't do anything right._

"You're not real," and he had such a terrible headache -- felt like someone was driving a nail into the bridge of his nose, right near the eye.

His vision blurred and faded -- he shut his eyes again.

_Worthless._

_Failure._

He slept, too exhausted to lie awake.

* * *

He didn't wake up so much as he became aware that his eyes were open. He was staring at the ceiling, and couldn't remember why.

He felt tired, and his body heavy. He didn't want to _think_ about getting out of bed.

But there were voices in his head, and he knew, dimly, in some other dimension, that he needed help.

He couldn't ask, though -- because that would be giving in.

But there was a whisper in his heart -- one that he chanted "You're not real" to dispel, one that wouldn't leave because the remaining rational part of him knew it was true -- and after all, the voices he heard were just parts of himself, weren't they? parts of his mind he couldn't accept.

The whisper, oddly, didn't tell him he was worthless, or that he was a failure.

It didn't wonder heatlessly about death -- what his would be like. If he had the energy to get up and die.

It's a small voice, his own or one like it:

_Don't you think Jeb ever felt like this?_

This whisper's in his head, he knows, because he's opened the Pandora's box of emotions he's kept locked so long -- that, opened, have sucked him in and tried to drown him. As it is he's not even floating on the surface -- he's lost somewhere in the flow, in an eddy where his thoughts don't change and he can't move.

He focuses his scattered attention on anything but that thought -- on the way his perception of time has changed, for one thing. He's lost his linearity. There is no longer reason in his world. And that means there _is_ no world, because without reason Reilly has nothing to hold on to.

Not even Jeb.

_He was never really yours,_ says the small voice.

Reilly curls on his side, staring with eyes that won't focus at his hand. It doesn't seem real. Nothing really does -- he feels like he's falling away from himself.

Someone knocks at the door, and he feels time trying to fold back on itself. Is that Jeb?

Then the door jerks open, and Kyle's snarling at him, a wonderful, familiar messenger from the world outside his head.

"Come with me, _now_."

Then Kyle's hauling Reilly out of bed, and he feels limp as a puppet until he finds his feet.

"You need to get the fuck out of that room," Kyle mutters. "Get some fresh fucking air." Kyle glares at him. "And don't tell me I can't do this. I'm your fucking best friend. I can do what I want with you."

And as Kyle marches him into the staff lounge for a cup of coffee, there's a corner of Reilly's heart -- the heart he can't feel beating -- that has the bad taste (and maybe the good grace) to feel fleetingly pleased by this.

Someone cares, it says uncertainly.

* * *

"Reilly, you're an idiot." Kyle slammed his palms on the table.

"I'm not the one who told me to touch puddles of congealed mystery blood." Reilly crossed his arms and looked at Kyle sourly.

"How the hell was I supposed to know doing that was gonna give you superflu?" He flipped his hair over his other shoulder -- a gesture that made Reilly think: _OK, you win. You. __Me.__ Bed. Now._

"OK, so there's no way you could have known that's what would happen," Reilly admitted. "But you're still the one who said for me to do it."

"So what if I am?"

"It doesn't take a biology major to know that fucking around with mystery blood is a bad idea."

"You majored in biochem," Kyle sniffed -- but Reilly knew he had him anyway.

"So? You've still got sense in your head. You shoulda known it was a bad idea."

"OK, so it was my fault," Kyle admitted. He grinned. "Anything else you want to trick me into admitting?"

"Who was the second shooter on the grassy knoll?" Reilly thought for a moment. "Uh... when is Duke Nukem Forever coming out?"

"Sorry, dunno either of those." Kyle sighed and cracked his knuckles.

Reilly stared at his hands for a moment, then said, "Y'know, people die from the flu."

"No shit, Sherlock."

"And I'm no good to your big plans if I'm dead."

"They're _your_ big plans," Kyle said, with a smile tugging at his lips.

"That may be true." _Damn_. Kyle had forced Reilly into admitting something. What was this, a contest to see who could get who to admit the most?

"It is."

"Well, it's not like you didn't have a hand in them..."

"OK, maybe I made a few small contributions. But they? Were _muy peque__ño._" Kyle made a 'see, look, it's goddamn tiny' hand gesture. "Muy pequeño."

"I get it. I took Spanish in high school too. But I swear you contributed like half of the plan."

"Oh, sure. Like which half?"

"I don't know."

"Yeah," Reilly muttered, and he could feel the caffeine wearing off. It had been working to keep him together and a little less down, but now -- he could _feel_ it wearing off, _feel_ his perception of time starting to shatter.

"Hey," Kyle said, and Reilly felt his eyes on him.

"Hay is for horses," Reilly said, and stared at the table. He couldn't keep his eyes open. Shit. That was a bad sign.

"You feeling all right?"

"Yes," Reilly said automatically, and then his tongue twisted in his mouth. His mouth dried up, and before he could stop himself he said, "No. I'm not all right."

"Oh Christ," Kyle said, a shaky smile on his face. "You're... fucking _Christ,_ Reilly." He got up and hugged Reilly. "Tell me what I need to do."

Surprised, Reilly just stayed there for a moment -- and then found himself crying into Kyle's shirt. "Don't leave."

"I wouldn't," Kyle promised, and Reilly clung onto him desperately.

"I just need you," he said, not understanding if it was really him saying it -- if it could really be him at all. "I just need you."

There was another name beating in Reilly's head, though: _Jeb_. _I need him. I can't have him_. Dark, sinuous whispers in mockeries of his own voice.

"I'm here," Kyle said, and something dark in Reilly's heart refused to be satisfied.

But Reilly himself was a pragmatist, and he took what he could get.


	35. Missing

Chapter Thirty-Five: Missing

Jeb leaned on the counter, watching Kyle tap away on his laptop. "Is Reilly any better?"

"Well, how did he tell you he was?" Kyle didn't look up from the screen.

"He looked sick when I saw him. Flu or something."

"Wasn't the flu." Kyle tapped out a sequence of characters and squinted at the screen.

"Do you know what it was?"

"I'm not a psychologist."

_Fuck_, Jeb thought succinctly, and prayed against hope it wasn't PBD. "Was he acting depressed?"

"He _was_ depressed," Kyle said. "I'm not a psychologist, but he was."

"Is he talking to someone?" Jeb demanded.

"Voices, no. Shrink, yes. I made him."

_Good on you._ "Good," Jeb said. "I was starting to worry about him."

"_Starting_ to worry about him," Kyle said sharply. "You didn't notice anything wrong."

"I thought he was sick," Jeb said, then added, "Besides, he works with Prescott, not me. I don't even talk to him that often."

"You see him an awful lot, though," Kyle said, and glared up at Jeb, resting his hands on the keyboard. "You really didn't notice anything wrong?"

"No, I didn't," Jeb said, deliberately keeping his cool.

"You're more oblivious than he is." Kyle's mouth twisted.

* * *

Jeb found Roland next, playing solitaire in the staff lounge and looking out at the desert. "Hey," he said by way of greeting, and Roland looked up mildly.

"Hello," he said, and went back to laying out the cards.

"I've just been talking with Kyle."

"Is that so?" Roland started flipping the cards over. Nine of diamonds. Two of clubs. Jack of hearts...

Jeb looked up. "Yeah. About Reilly."

"How is he?" Roland's hand shook slightly.

"Fine, according to Kyle." Jeb shrugged. "I couldn't get much out of him, though."

Roland looked up, making eye contact with Jeb. "How's Reilly doing?"

Jeb got the point, for once not as dense as he usually felt. He looked down at his hands, the game of solitaire, the table. "Not well, I think."

"Any idea what's wrong?" Roland moved cards from one stack to another.

Solitaire, Jeb found, made less sense when you watched it being played upside-down.

"No," he said. "Kyle says he's depressed. _I_ thought he had the flu. He didn't look well."

"Where is he now?" Roland looked at the cards, thinking.

"Eight of spades can go here." Jeb tapped the nine of diamonds.

"Thank you." Roland moved the card.

"I have no idea," he admitted, focusing his attention on the game. "Kyle says he's talking to someone, but I don't know where that means he'd be."

"Pray he's not off the grounds," Roland muttered.

"Why?" Jeb asked. "Two of clubs can go to the ace."

"Thank you." He moved it, turned over the next card in the stack. "Because if he's that bad, I wouldn't let him anywhere near a car."

"Ah." Jeb watched without speaking for a moment.

"Didn't you notice?"

"Notice what?"

Roland rolled his eyes and kept moving the cards. "I thought it was obvious."

"Thought _what_ was obvious?" He could be so _irritating._ Jeb bit his lip.

"Reilly has PBD." Roland turned a card over.

"Oh." Perhaps he _was_ as dense as he usually felt he was. "That makes sense."

"Well. It's not a professional diagnosis, but... all the signs are there. The obvious ones, at least." Roland adjusted his glasses, and Jeb bit back a smile. That was one of _his_ nervous habits. "A while back -- do you remember how cheerful he was? Abnormally so?"

"Yes," Jeb said, trying to remember. He thought Reilly might have been abnormally cheerful, but couldn't really remember.

"And now he's so depressed he won't leave his room." Roland moved cards from one stack to another. "The last time I talked to him before that he wouldn't stop talking about some plan he had."

"Sounds like PBD to me." Jeb shook his head.

Roland grinned. "I told you."

"OK, fine. You were right."

"Of course I was."

"So you could tell?"

"Yeah." Roland tilted his head and looked at Jeb curiously. "Why?"

"I should have known."

"Why?"

Jeb couldn't meet his eyes -- but he _did_ feel something remarkably like hope setting root in his heart.

"Not everything is your fault."

"I should have seen this coming."

Roland deliberated for a moment, then moved a card.

"I could have... asked him to get help," Jeb continued. "I could have done something. If I'd seen this coming."

He glanced up and saw Roland very obviously suppressing a smile before he said:

"You don't have to save everyone, you know."

Jeb blinked at him. (The little hope plant in his heart sent out a few tentative shoots, seeking the light, tickling his ribs with delicate leaves.)

"Really."

Jeb dropped his gaze, staring at the table instead.

Roland put out a hand and tipped his chin up, forcing Jeb to look him in the eye.

"This isn't your fault," he said.

(The hope plant did something very un-plantlike, sending odd sparkling feelings of... happiness? bouncing around Jeb's chest.)

"You couldn't have known," Roland said softly. "There was nothing you could have done. It was going to happen, sooner or later. You don't have to feel guilty."

Jeb... well, Jeb felt almost _free_. As if he'd had a burden lifted from his shoulders, one that he'd forgotten he was carrying.

"Reilly's going to be fine, you know that? He'll be OK in the end." He smiled.

"Right," Jeb said.

"Really. We came out of it all right, didn't we?"

Jeb smiled back at him. "We did, I guess."

He leaned across the table and whispered in Roland's ear.

"I love you. You know that?"

Roland's hand stuttered on the table, spilling the game of solitaire out of order.

He whispered back.

"Of course I do."


	36. Return to Normality

Chapter Thirty-Six: Return to Normality

Reilly's heart is ticking fast in his throat, and he doesn't believe what this woman has just told him -- this woman with the carefully styled hair.

He has a mental disorder, she tells him. This isn't just a normal variation in mood. He is not a normal man who occasionally has low periods.

He has paranoid bipolar disorder, she tells him, the words slipping from her tongue like snakes -- and time is sliding sideways away from him, a kid with new shoes on a hardwood floor.

But Reilly holds his sense of time jealously in hands that are shaking, and listens to what she has to say:

He's lucky. (She pats him on the hand.) He'll be on medication for the rest of his life, have to see a therapist at the same time. (For the rest of his life. She makes it sound so cheerful and small a thing.)

She's talking about his _life._ Doesn't she understand that? Reilly's only twenty-four.

That's not old enough to be like this.

He presses his hands against his eyes, shutting out the light, _not-thinking-about-that_.

Then he thinks something that makes a warm feeling wash through him:

Jeb was diagnosed when he was in his twenties, too.

And he doesn't feel so alone -- it's as if he has a hand to hold while she outlines what his life will be like. Someone else is building the framework of Reilly's future life, and he doesn't care as much as he should, because it's just like when he was in college, and the dark was all around: Jeb is there for him, in his heart, where it counts -- between Reilly and despair.

Except it's better than it was then, because now Jeb is only a breath away from him. They're _friends_.

He thanks her for her time and walks out, not really knowing where he's going, but feeling -- feeling _OK_, nonetheless.

* * *

He goes back to Kyle first, seeking him out from some remaining instinct, some shred of thought that's left in his head: _Find Kyle_.

Kyle's waiting for him, trying to look relaxed.

"You waited for me," Reilly says before he can stop himself.

"Duh," Kyle says. "I knew you weren't going to take that long."

Then Kyle hugs him, and says, "You _do_ realize that people actually care about you, right?"

"Right," Reilly mutters, and doesn't want to let go of Kyle.

"Good." They untangle themselves from each other.

Reilly smiles at Kyle tentatively. "I need to go into town. She's put me on meds."

"Fucking fantastic, man," Kyle says. "I'll take you. C'mon."

Reilly remembers not to be surprised that Kyle has a car -- after all, Kyle came here well after Reilly did, and has more reason to leave.

Reilly's the one who should have a reason to stay.

* * *

Kyle doesn't drive like a maniac anymore (but Reilly still holds his fragile sense of time in a death grip). And he's quiet, not chatty like he usually is.

Reilly looks out the window, rather than talk (he can't -- something is still in him that will not say a word). The sky is brilliantly blue, and a hot Santa Ana wind rushes in through the window he's rolled down.

He closes his eyes, and doesn't have to make an effort not to think. But this isn't the blanked-out despair not-thinking he's somehow gotten used to -- it's the blissful, immersed-in-the-moment not-thinking he remembers.

The memory of blanking out brushes across his conscious mind, and he opens his eyes, thinking about the digits on his clock changing without continuity, hours disappearing.

"How long?" he asks, breaking the silence.

"Huh?" Kyle glances over at him. He's not wearing sunglasses (he refuses to, for whatever reason), and Reilly is, for once, grateful for this (rather than annoyed that Kyle is killing his vision with the glare), because it lets him see the expression in Kyle's eyes: he _does_ care. "How long what?"

"I think I lost time," Reilly says, building the words together carefully, still feeling like he's not getting the point across. "How long's it been since..."

He's hard-pressed to remember the last time he spoke to Kyle before Kyle rescued him.

Were things that bad?

Kyle's eyes are on the road, but Reilly can read his expression nonetheless -- he's thinking, trying to remember. "Dr. Batchelder was in to see you a while ago, I think. Saw Dr. ter Borcht dragging him over that way, anyway."

"How many days ago was that?" Reilly remembers that, faintly, speaking to Jeb -- but he's getting impatient. He wants to know how many days have been stolen from him. (Does that mean he's coming out of it? He doesn't really want to know.)

"Oh, not as long as it could have been. Sometime last week..." Kyle stops talking for a moment, adds, "It's Tuesday, by the way."

"Great." Reilly leans on the window for support. "I never got the hang of Tuesdays."

"Me either." Kyle falls silent, doing some sort of mental calculations, figuring the math of the time Reilly's lost to himself.

_Did he really not notice_? Reilly thinks.

Kyle seems to hear him, because he says absently, "I got caught up in some stuff for work. Lost track of time, you know? And I never had the best sense of time anyway."

Reilly keeps an eye on the mountains in the distance, says nothing.

"Christ," Kyle says finally. "A week, I guess."

_Not as bad as it could have been_.

"A week."

"Yeah."

Reilly nods. "All right, then. A week."

He's faintly unsurprised that it doesn't hurt to think.

Time has already slipped from his hands -- like cold stream water, running through his fingers.

* * *

It won't take long for the prescription to come in, the pharmacist tells Reilly. A few days.

"All right," Reilly tells her, and he leaves with Kyle. They'll come back.

Until then, Reilly will make it. He always does, doesn't he?

* * *

Reilly knocks on the door to Jeb's lab, feeling cheerful, feeling _great_, really himself.

"Come in," calls Jeb's voice, and Reilly steps inside.

Jeb's tinkering with some sort of experiment that looks delicate, but he stops when he sees it's Reilly.

"Hello," he says, and sets the test tube he's holding back in the rack.

Reilly's been thinking about what he's going to say, and he chooses the simplest words.

"I'm back," he says.

"Great." Jeb smiles. "It's nice to have you back."

"Just wanted you to know," Reilly says, already moving towards the door.

He almost misses it when Jeb says:

"We worried about you."

We?

Oh. We.

But he finds himself not caring, because Jeb does something Reilly doesn't expect:

He steps forward and hugs Reilly -- briefly, yes, but still enough to surprise him. Because Jeb isn't a very "touchy" person. He doesn't like to touch other people. He doesn't like to be touched.

(Reilly can smell his aftershave.)

"Take care of yourself," Jeb says.

"Thank you," Reilly says, and "Goodbye", and on his way out of the lab

time snapped back into place.

He felt linear again. The world felt rational.

And it happened all of a sudden.

_Thank you_, he thought but didn't say (only crazy people talk to themselves, after all -- and _he_ was no longer crazy). Because it was Jeb's fault that he was himself again.

He felt alive.


	37. Dot Dot Dot Line Line Line Dot Dot Dot

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Dot Dot Dot Line Line Line Dot Dot Dot

Reilly had always liked patterns. He found them elegant -- fractals had enchanted him from the time he was eight, when he'd seen them printed in between sections of a cheaply inaccurate science fiction novel.

Plans enchanted him as well -- he never made them, found them a little constraining (or at least Kyle did, and they'd been two halves of the same person since they were little kids, so Reilly did as well), but admired seeing them laid out. They were... pretty.

He liked to sketch them.

So that was the first thing he did that morning -- it seemed like a good idea -- sketched out plans in thin black-ink lines on the back of an old sketch of a bird's wing. (It looked like a raven in flight -- and what _that_ said symbolically, Reilly didn't much want to know.)

It would be a misnomer to say he wrote them out -- the plans, the plan, the pattern. He didn't. Words had nothing to do with this -- as with every time he channeled the artistic side of his personality, words quietly stepped out the side door for a quick smoke and a chat amongst themselves while images -- images did whatever it is images do. Run around causing havoc, maybe.

He drew the pattern -- plans, really, he guessed, but there weren't really proper words to describe what he was drawing anyway.

Four dots, the corners of a square implied by negative space. Lines connecting the pairs -- so, two lines, drawn with stark confidence between dots that became undeniably members of a pair.

He leaned back in his chair and thought for a moment, looking at the pattern with an expression he'd perfected -- one that was patiently careless, in an attempt to tempt a good idea closer.

If he'd been really pressed to, he could have explained very lucidly why the dots represented the people -- why he didn't just doodle little portraits of the people involved.

One, dots were faster to draw.

Two, dots were simpler than the actual people. The more complex things got, the harder it was to draw a line between what was _thing_ and what was not _thing_.

It went for people, too, he thought lazily, chewing on the end of his pen. The more complex they got -- well, the better you knew them, since the more you didn't know someone the easier it was to oversimplify them into little brief haiku descriptions and caricatures of themselves -- the more complex they got, the harder it was to separate what they were from what they weren't.

So it was easier to draw dots.

_Speaking of easy_, his subconscious said, and his train of thought jumped the rails like a cat pretending to be a train, landing neatly on an entirely separate set -- that still managed, somehow, to be related to what he'd been thinking in the first place.

As a natural consequence of patterns and plans, complexity had always been an attractive thought to Reilly. Things naturally linking into each other. It was soothing, in a way.

Especially the complexity of big, overarching plans -- plans that required the actions of others to work fascinated him. Because for those plans to work you had to rely on other people acting as you predicted.

It took skill to predict the actions of others to that degree of accuracy. He admired that. He didn't have it himself -- or, well, he thought he did, he just knew he didn't have it (if he had it) at a conscious level.

It was there. It just wasn't on a level he could access of his own accord -- it was like his talent for drawing, not something he could willfully bring up from the depths and use.

He bit down on the end of the pen, trying to persuade the sketch to come into form, and simultaneously saying _Well, all right then, if you won't show up I'll occupy myself until you do_ by resolutely thinking of other things than the task at hand.

Like Kyle, for instance. Who was very definitely not relevant to sketching (although, oddly, Reilly found upon considering the subject that he hadn't had a go at sketching Kyle in years. Odd, considering that Reilly tended to sketch whatever was closest at hand -- and being that Kyle was his best friend, he was often what was closest at hand).

Kyle, who had always worn chunky cheap digital watches in an attempt to disguise the fact that he had thin wrists, just bones wrapped in skin really (which was true for everyone if you thought about it, but obvious for Kyle because you could count his ribs -- if you could entice him into taking his shirt off).

And it was the fractals that had gotten Reilly into studying bones in the first place (well, bones and genes, but primarily what he thought of was the bones -- and studying, anyway, in the academic sense, not in the sense Kyle _liked_) -- both were simple, the... underlying structure of something much more complex.

Plans were the skeletons of lives, he'd found. Or started to find -- the data were still inconclusive as always. (His data were never conclusive. Perhaps there was a little too much doubt in him. Perhaps there was just enough. Or perhaps the quantity of doubt needed varied depending on the person. He liked that answer best, he found -- and filed it away in the cabinet he reserved for definitive answers. It was a big cabinet, with only a few fragments floating around inside its drawers -- sad, in a way...)

So he drew the first shape of a plan, hovering between _this_ dot and _that_ dot because it belonged to both of them. _This _plan was theirs, but -- he drew a thin line connecting the plan to one of the other dots -- this _other_ dot knew about it. He wasn't part of it, but he knew about it.

And these two -- he drew in another plan-shape -- these two had a plan of their own, one that the other connected pair didn't know about. (Even though it involved the other connected pair. Sometimes.)

He sat back and thought, letting his thoughts flow and mingle of their own accord. But they had begun to coalesce now -- so it wasn't long before he put pen to paper again.

Here. This dot and that dot, not in a connected pair, had a plan with each other (he sketched in another plan-shape). He wasn't sure they did, but he _thought_ it was true, so he drew it. If he wasn't right, he could always redo it later. Not erase it -- he preferred to work in pen because of its permanence -- but redo it. Clean paper, fresh ink.

He stared down at the paper, pen gripped loosely in his hand. He knew what this was -- he was rationalizing all the complex plans he and Kyle and Jeb and Roland had gotten tangled in.

Here, between Jeb and Roland -- _their _plan of keeping Roland a secret. (Reilly sketched in a shadow. He sensed that wasn't the only plan they had, but he couldn't be sure.)

Here, between Reilly himself and Kyle -- _their_ plan, the only one he really knew for certain, of getting to the bottom of whatever was going on at the School.

Here, between... Kyle and Jeb? (well, that was new) a plan of some kind. Reilly blinked down at it. Well, if he was wrong he could correct it later.

He had a feeling, though, that he wouldn't be wrong. Just a feeling, and as a rational man he ignored it (mostly), shoving it neatly off to the corner of his mind where ignored ideas went. But being a cautious man (and being _Reilly_ -- Reilly feeling like _himself_ again, his subconscious filibustered, Reilly _drawing_ again for the first time in God knew how long) he kept an eye on it.

He capped his pen, laid it off to the side. (He needed to clean off his desk... but then again, he always did.) And he carefully tore the sheet of paper the sketch was on from his sketchbook. He liked this one.

Reilly taped the sketch to his wall, and couldn't help feeling a wisp of regret.

He'd figured _something_ out about what was going on here at the School.

Probably not the right something, but... _something._

It was a start.


	38. Chaos Theory Under Starlight

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Chaos Theory Under Starlight

There was calmness in the chaos, he found -- he never knew, because it was, well, _chaos_, exactly its results. But he found reassurance in it -- a reservoir of halcyon calm in the unsettled restlessness of the data. He had never yet found chaos that didn't eventually have an underlying pattern -- at least, not in all the work he'd done. There was always an effect, always a cause -- always a _pattern_, grace arising from background noise. All it took to coax order from chaos was time -- looking over the data, rearranging it, until order emerged.

He didn't have much data, this time -- unlike usually, when he had the luxury of multiple clinical trials, multiple subjects, varying results -- this chaos was small, intimate, _familiar_. He was part of it himself, after all.

Like Reilly, ter Borcht had a set strategy for distilling calm from inner disorder.

Reilly sketched.

Ter Borcht played cards.

It was the shuffling, for the most part, that he found conducive to thought -- especially now, paradoxically, when he was looking for order. Shuffling, after all, was -- if not destroying, then _rearranging_ a pre-established order.

He had a lot to think about today, admittedly. Reilly, for instance. Ter Borcht had been half-expecting him to have PBD -- but it was shocking to see himself proven right, when he'd never had evidence to back his opinion up. And it bothered him, the way it had shown up -- PBD was nearly _always_ diagnosed after a manic episode or blackout.

But not "nearly always" as in "one hundred percent of cases", he reminded himself -- Jeb had been diagnosed following a major _depressive_ episode, and ter Borcht himself while he was in between episodes. It was a small sample size, but... well...

He stared at the cards for a moment, then admitted it to himself:

He was expecting Reilly to lose it completely at any moment. Even though he'd just gone on medication -- which was intended, if nothing else, to smooth out mood swings and quiet psychotic tendencies. (Which it did -- quite well.)

Reilly was going to be _fine_.

Ter Borcht still felt uneasy about him, though. As if... as if this were a calm before the storm.

But he couldn't put data behind that feeling -- he couldn't say _why_ he felt that. He had no evidence -- there was no rational reason why he thought Reilly was going to lose it.

He just had a bad feeling about this.

Ter Borcht sighed and dealt out a game of solitaire.

* * *

Darkness crept up on him while he wasn't looking. So did Jeb.

"Are you still here?"

"Where does it look like I am?" He swept the cards into a pile, tapped them into a stack, began to shuffle.

"It's _late_, Roland."

"And?" He stacked the cards on the desk and looked patiently at Jeb.

"You should be asleep."

"Really. I'm not a _kid_." He rolled his eyes.

"It's one in the morning."

"Why are you still awake, then?"

Jeb cleared his throat. "I was just -- finishing some things up in the lab."

He sounded embarrassed -- _Gotcha,_ ter Borcht thought.

"At one in the morning," he said.

Jeb blushed. "Well, yes -- I lost track of time."

He shoved the deck of cards in his pocket and stood up. "I'll walk back with you," he offered.

"Sure." Jeb hit the light switch on his way out -- unnecessary, but probably a habit he'd never broken.

"I just... I worry about you sometimes," Jeb said as they stepped outside. It _was _late -- the stars were out, and it felt like early morning.

"Why?" Ter Borcht looked up at the sky, avoiding Jeb's attempts to meet his gaze. Was that Orion? He was pretty sure it was. "I can take care of myself, you know."

"I know that, Roland. It's just..." Jeb fell silent.

Ter Borcht smiled and said nothing. He could be so -- _sweet_ was really the only word for it.

Jeb stopped walking and turned to face ter Borcht, obviously fumbling for words.

"I... I just... I want you to be safe, OK?" He sounded _shy_, and he bit his lip before continuing.

"I read the files you gave me," he said. "And I know this is really dangerous for you and -- and for the baby."

He glanced down at his shoes. "And I love you," he added quietly.

"I know that," ter Borcht said. "I know all of that."

Jeb glanced up, starlight reflecting faintly off his glasses.

"I love you too," he said, because it seemed like the right thing to say -- and Jeb smiled at him, so maybe it was.

"Let's go inside," Jeb said shyly, and took ter Borcht's hand.

"Sounds like a good idea."

It was quiet inside, the hall dark, fluorescent lights dimmed as a nod, mostly, to the fact that electricity had to be conserved. (And as a concession to the other fact that most people, even at the School, slept at night.)

Jeb paused in front of the door to his room, biting his lip and bouncing up and down slightly on the balls of his feet, like a kid about to ask someone on a date. "Roland?"

Ter Borcht paused, hand on the light switch inside his own room. "Yes?"

"Will you, uh -- do you want to stay with me tonight?"

Ter Borcht smiled -- he could see on Jeb's face that he was convinced he'd just said something horribly awkward. _You're cute when you do that_, he thought. "Yeah, sure. That'd be great."

Jeb grinned. "Then come on in."

Ter Borcht shut the door to his room and stepped into Jeb's.

There was a lot of chaos in his life -- sometimes too much, it felt like, enough that he could go crazy trying to sort it all out.

But this -- this felt like the natural order of things. This, he was sure, was how it was supposed to be.

He liked it.


	39. Stop The Plot, I Want To Get Off

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Stop The Plot, I Want To Get Off

It had been far too long since Jeb had woken up next to someone else. At first it was a little confusing, not waking up alone, until he remembered where he was and who was next to him.

He checked the time. Half-past six.

He didn't have anywhere he particularly needed to be.

So he closed his eyes again, listening to the soft, regular sound of Roland breathing.

He'd missed having someone to wake up next to, he realized. He hadn't known how much until now.

"'S too early," Roland said muzzily in his ear. "Go back to sleep."

"I'm trying to," Jeb said. "You're not helping."

"Mmm. Fine. Any way I _can_ help?"

"Stop distracting me."

"'M not distracting you," Roland said, breath brushing against Jeb's neck.

"Yes, you are." Jeb shifted away from him, trying to be unobtrusive, but there was really only so much bed for them to share, which made it awkward for Jeb to try and stay away from Roland -- to say the least.

"How?" He sounded suspiciously innocent. And he kept breathing on Jeb's neck.

"Stop doing that." Jeb made an effort to escape, and found that at some point Roland had stealthily put an arm over him. Which only meant that it would be more difficult to make his escape, but... somehow it made him not want to escape at all.

"Stop doing what?" He brushed Jeb's neck with his lips.

"_That_. And get your arm off me."

"Why?" Roland didn't move. Jeb considered the merits of being minorly irritated, then decided it wasn't worth it.

"I'm trying to sleep."

"Then sleep."

"You're not helping."

"Mmm," Roland murmured.

"Stop distracting me," Jeb said, smiling despite himself.

"Thought you were trying to sleep."

"I _am_."

"Mmkay," Roland said.

Jeb closed his eyes.

* * *

He woke up some time later, and the quality of the light had changed, which was the second thing he noticed -- the first being that Roland had gone.

There was a note lying on the floor under the clock, and Jeb, being Jeb, picked it up and read it.

He knew immediately that Roland had left it there. One, Roland would know that the first thing Jeb would do on waking would be to check the time, making under the clock the first logical place to put a note.

Two, it was written in a carefully legible hand, the kind that people with naturally messy handwriting -- such as the two of them -- fell back on when they had a bad feeling that whoever they were writing to might not be able to read their scrawl.

Three, it was signed.

_Jeb, _it read:

_Meet me for breakfast? You're always harping on me about it. I'll see you in the cafeteria if you'd like to join me._

_Incidentally -- you're very cute when you're asleep. Try it more, you might enjoy it._

_-- Roland_

Jeb grinned and refolded the note, thinking he was going to have to tell Roland that no one had ever told him that before.

And it _would_ probably be better for him to sleep more than he made a habit of doing, he reflected -- though he'd been getting more sleep recently than he had been before he'd met Roland, he still wasn't getting enough.

He found his glasses and put them on, wondering why it was that Roland was so damn _good_ at knowing things about him -- intuiting things, really. How he could know that the first thing Jeb would do on waking was check the time.

_Witchcraft,_ he thought, being deliberately flippant for the sake of it, and laid the note on his desk, ignoring the way thinking of Roland had made his heart flutter in his chest.

* * *

He was already smiling when Jeb found him in the cafeteria.

"I'd almost given up on you." He indicated the other side of the table. "Go ahead, sit down."

"Thank you," Jeb muttered, having no idea what to say, or if there was something he was supposed to say.

It seemed Roland had that effect on him often, he noted.

"You feeling all right?" he asked, regaining a sense of what he was probably supposed to say in this sitation.

"Yes. I'm fine." Roland smiled tensely. (Jeb hadn't really known that was possible -- well, until he'd started paying attention.) "Better, I guess."

"Good. Any unusual symptoms?"

"Unusual, no." He leaned across the table and lowered his voice. "Some abdominal pain would be normal, yes?"

A very small, irrational part of Jeb's brain took the trouble to notice that despite the fact that he spoke nearly perfect English, Roland still had a rather endearing trace of an accent.

The rest of Jeb's brain was occupied at the moment, and refused to offer comment on the matter.

"I'm not a goddamn gynecologist," Jeb replied, lowering his voice in turn. "How would you describe it?"

"Don't be flip with me. I want an outside opinion," Roland hissed, then processed that Jeb had said something else, and made a seesawing hand gesture. "Not bad. I'm not worried about it."

"Then why did you ask me?"

"I wanted to hear your voice," he said, and then snapped, with a startlingly fond edge, "I said I wanted an outside opinion. That's why."

Jeb was horrified to find that some part of him was convinced that Roland's first statement hadn't been a joke at all -- well, horrified and pleasantly amused.

"Oh," he said, and had the presence of mind to regret not making an actual contribution to the conversation.

Roland sighed and adjusted his glasses (_goddammit, there he goes stealing my nervous habits,_ Jeb thought), then leaned forward again. "Are you done yet?"

Jeb glanced down at the... well, you'd have to call it breakfast that he'd been picking at. "Yes," he said, for the sake of having an answer.

"Good. Let's go."

"Why?" Jeb always needed a reason. It was possibly one of his most damnable character traits -- well, scratch that, it _was_.

"Look around," Roland said.

Jeb did, attempting to be surreptitious, but with a sinking sense he was failing.

"Everyone's staring at us."

"Exactly," Roland said, and toyed with his cuffs. "Now, I'm not sure about you, but I don't like being stared at. Let's go."

"All right, all right." Jeb extracted himself from the table.

Once they were out in the hall, Jeb took the liberty of asking what he was fairly sure was an annoying question.

"Why would everyone be staring at us?"

Roland snorted. "Why do you _think_?"

"You're cute?" Jeb volunteered.

"Flattering, but not exactly." Roland turned the corner; Jeb followed him. He seemed to know where he was going, or at least have a vague idea.

"Well, it's not exactly unusual for two colleagues -- especially here -- to discuss work over a meal," Jeb mused.

"Unless it's breakfast. And unless it's for about five minutes, prior to which one of them loafed about for half an hour waiting for the other one to show up." He grinned. "Mad scientists, as Reilly would probably say, can be a pretty oblivious bunch -- but they're not that oblivious."

"Reilly would also say that we're two of the most well-known people in our field. That's reason to stare, I think," Jeb pointed out.

"True." Roland paused in front of the door to the staff lounge. "But that's what Reilly would say. What would _you_ say?"

"I -- I'm not sure," Jeb stammered, even though he knew exactly what he would say.

"Oh, come on." He folded his arms in front of him.

Jeb stared resolutely at his shoes, then forced himself to look directly at Roland.

It shouldn't have been that hard for him to make eye contact. Especially with his... well, was 'lover' even the right word?

It would do, in any case, he decided -- and was promptly startled when his heart fluttered a little.

'Lover'. Well, holy shit.

He decided his reaction was justified -- it wasn't exactly a word he'd applied to anyone before, much less Roland ter Borcht. 'My esteemed colleague', sure. 'My lover'?

_Holy shit_ about covered it.

"Well," he said carefully. "Our, uh, colleagues. Mad scientists aren't stupid. Some even have observational talent."

Roland smiled and inclined his head slightly. "Yes."

"Everyone in the facility knows about the project you're here to work on. Some still believe that you're here to assist me in taking care of the subject. But the vast majority either know or suspect that, ah." Jeb bit his lip before continuing. "That you're the subject."

Roland nodded. "Yes."

"And, well, you look different," Jeb ventured. "Maybe that's why they were all staring."

"No shit I look different," Roland said, possibly more roughly than was really warranted. "You think I haven't _noticed_?" He grinned more broadly for a moment. "And did it ever occur to you that they might be staring because we're always together, never apart?"

Jeb was genuinely shocked.

He'd never thought of that.

"Well -- it's still possible that I'd follow you around because I was concerned for your health," he said, aware that they were standing in the doorway, hoping that no one needed to _use_ said doorway any time in the foreseeable future, because it was probably going to be occupied by the two of them for some time.

Roland's expression softened a little. "It's immediately obvious to anyone who isn't utterly oblivious that we're -- together. I don't think anyone is still laboring under the delusion that our relationship remains strictly that of a doctor and his patient, or of two colleagues working together," he said wryly.

"So is that why you think everyone was staring?" Jeb said.

"Yes." Roland put his hand on the doorknob.

"And what do you mean, 'together'?" He had a bad feeling that he sounded like a first-year student -- or a teacher's pet. Possibly both.

"You can't figure it out?" He rested his hand lightly on the doorknob. "Dating. In a relationship. Need I go on?"

"I wouldn't say 'dating', precisely," Jeb muttered.

"What would you say, then?"

" 'In a relationship' works," he offered.

"Good. It would be rather awkward thinking of you as my boyfriend," Roland said, struggling to suppress a rather schoolboyish smile.

"How would you prefer to think of me?" Jeb said, almost shyly.

"Oh, I don't know -- I don't know if there's exactly a word for how I feel towards you." He spoke casually, in the manner of someone trying to disguise how they really feel about their subject matter. "How I think of you."

"Would 'lover' work?" Jeb said, and oh damn, was he blushing?

"Yes," Roland said, sounding like he was actually considering it. "It would."

"Good," Jeb said. Oh dammit. He _was_ blushing. Dammit, dammit, _dammit._ "That's how I think of you."

"As your lover? That's... appropriate." His hand left the doorknob, and came upward to brush against Jeb's cheek. "Because I do love you."

"You say that a lot," Jeb said, for lack of anything better to say.

"You never seem to get it," Roland said.

"I like hearing you say it."

He smiled, and the same faint, irrational part of Jeb that had noticed his accent not so long ago insisted _Go on, kiss him._ "Then why don't you ever say it back?"

Jeb followed his own advice, and kissed his -- well, they'd decided on _lover_ as the right word.

Roland made a surprised, pleased noise, but didn't say anything -- fitting, as Jeb's lips were covering his.

Jeb broke away from him, and said, justifiably breathless, "I've always been terrible at saying things. I'm better at _doing_."

"I've noticed," Roland said, ever the smart aleck.

"Was that an invitation?" Jeb said, perfectly and cheerfully aware he wasn't making much sense, if any.

"Yes."

"Good. I'd hate to do anything uninvited."

"Anything? Anything _what_?"

"Anything like this."

Jeb pressed his lover up against the door and kissed him again.


	40. Unsure

Chapter Forty: Unsure

Contrary to what he had almost convinced himself, Jeb wasn't _that_ oblivious -- he _did_ see what was happening around him (well, all right, so sometimes when he was working he didn't, but for the most part). He noticed things -- it was part of his job, after all, to see things that were different in the world, and ask _why_.

So he felt it when Roland tensed and leaned away from him, suggesting, "We must be blocking the door. Let's move."

"Why?" Jeb asked, and then, because it was in his nature to ask questions, "Is something wrong?"

"People like to use doors, sometimes," Roland said (and Jeb felt the odd tenseness in the way he was still, unmoving in his arms). "We're standing in the doorway."

"No one's in there," Jeb said, feeling like he was the reasonable one.

"Still," Roland said, and that was the other thing Jeb didn't often think about, that other people didn't suspect him of: though he tended to be cheerfully ignorant of emotion and its workings, he still had the occasional Eureka moment of clear sight regarding it.

"Something's wrong," he said, and knew he was right before Roland had a chance to deny it. "What is it?"

"I'm fine," Roland snapped, and Jeb had a fleeting bad feeling he'd said completely the wrong thing, because Roland twisted away, separating himself from Jeb. "It's nothing."

"Earlier," Jeb said carefully, resisting with accustomed strength the urge to take Roland in his arms again, knowing he'd be rejected, "you said you'd been having some pain. Is it that?"

"I didn't say it was me," he said sharply. "I asked if it would be normal."

"OK, fine," Jeb said. "You wanted an answer: Yes. For a -- a typical pregnancy, a typical first pregnancy, I would say that some abdominal pain is normal. But this -- isn't a typical case."

"No shit it's not," he said, crossing his arms tightly, avoiding Jeb's attempt to make eye contact.

"I know it isn't," Jeb said, trying to be patient. "That's why I'm asking -- I need to know if you're having any pain, and how bad it is. Because -- it could be a bad sign." His voice died away, and he didn't say what he knew damn well they were both thinking: _You could die. Both of you._ And he didn't say what he was thinking: _I can't lose you. Not like that._

"I know that." He glanced up, making eye contact for a split second -- suddenly he looked tired, Jeb saw, almost folding in on himself. "I just -- can you leave me alone?"

Jeb almost let him go -- if he needed to be alone, that was that and Jeb understood -- but for some reason he didn't, and said instead, "No. I -- I have to talk to you." He wasn't making sense, but he hoped anyway that Roland got what he was saying. "This could be serious."

"I know that," he repeated.

Jeb spoke carefully, trying not to say the wrong thing, knowing he'd probably manage to anyway. "There's a chance that -- any pain you'd be having could be an indication of -- internal bleeding, or something else gone wrong. If we -- let that go without treatment -- you could die. You would die."

Roland didn't say anything, but kept still and resistant, arms rigidly crossed, protecting himself -- _from what? _he wondered, and Roland avoided his eyes, looking coolly at the wall just past him.

He struggled to find the right words to say what he wanted to say, and failed to find them, settling for next-best. "I can't let that happen," he said at last.

"Why not?" Roland made eye contact, almost daring Jeb to do something, say the next word, looking aggressive, angry, fierce despite the weariness so evident in him. "Would that spoil the results?" he spat. "If I die, would that fuck up the experiment?"

"No," Jeb said, stranded without the words he knew he needed to say. "No, that's not it."

"I won't be a statistic," Roland said, defiant, and Jeb remembered Prescott calling him _it_, and believed he understood. "I'm fine."

"If something's wrong, I need to know," Jeb said, pleading. "I need to know so I can do something to help."

"_I'm_ what's wrong," he snapped. He drew his arms tighter around himself. "There is a fucking _reason_ women are the ones who get pregnant," he said. "I can't do this. I'm going to die."

"No, you're not," Jeb said, fumbling for the right thing to say again, again coming up with nothing. "You'll be fine."

"No, I won't," he said. "You said it -- _you_ said I was going to die."

"_If_ you were bleeding internally, and _if_ that went untreated."

His eyes narrowed. "I'm still going to die," he said, his voice calm and steady.

"No, you're not going to," Jeb said. "I mean, the -- the delivery -- the birth will be difficult, but it's nothing much different from a normal C-section." He heard his voice and it sounded desperate in his ears -- he hoped it had something to offer to Roland, some fragment of solace, _anything._

"And what if I don't make it until then?" The thing about his eyes, Jeb found -- was finding, was that they weren't dark -- they were clear, showing emotion precisely, free of shadows that might obscure meaning. "What if I die before that? What then?"

"I won't let that happen," he said, and surprised himself by how confident he sounded, how sure.

"Jeb, please stop," Roland said quietly. "Please. I'm tired and -- I _hurt_, and I'm afraid, and I don't know what. Please. Stop."

He looked somehow... _fragile_, almost delicate in the harsh fluorescent light.

"I'm sorry," Jeb said, unsure as always of what he'd done wrong, knowing that wasn't the thing that mattered now. "Is there... anything I can do? I want to help you."

He uncrossed his arms, didn't say a word, only looking at Jeb.

"I need to help you," Jeb said. "If you just -- tell me what you need, tell me how you feel -- I can try and help."

And he smiled. Not broadly, hardly more than a tip-tilting of his lips at the corners, the Mona Lisa asking if she should start posing now, but it was _there_, and it made Jeb amazed and happy to see him smiling because of something he, Jeb, had done.

If he could make Roland happy -- well, there was a chance for him after all.

"Just don't leave," Roland said, speaking as if he didn't want to know what exactly he was saying. "Don't leave."

"I wouldn't," Jeb said, and he meant it.

"Just -- _please_," he said, and he sounded desperate. "Stay," he said. "Stay with me."

"I will," Jeb promised, and took his hand when he offered it.

"I just -- I need to be quiet for a while," he explained, and led Jeb outside (and he saw two dark birds soaring far overhead on a thermal, but couldn't make out whether they were hawks against the sun or ravens -- he couldn't see them, because they were far away and Roland was close).

"I know," Jeb said, and they stepped back into air conditioning. "I understand."

"I knew you would," he said, and shyly slipped his arm around Jeb's waist.


	41. Nothing But The Truth

Chapter Forty-One: Nothing But The Truth

_I am afraid of dying,_ he thought, because it was better to house a dangerous certainty in your head than an uncertain thought, an abstraction out of its cage. _Yes. I am afraid of death._

He wanted to tell Jeb -- tell him everything, because he was _right there_ and all it would take was the courage to say it, and he knew he'd understand -- but he couldn't find the right words to say it all.

Because there were nights when he lay awake thinking, like always, and there were nights when he dreamed of his death -- when he saw confused, tangled images, of himself, so pale, and blood, and most painfully, Jeb in despair, shocked, doing his best to save him and finding it wasn't enough.

That was the worst image he woke with, worse than seeing himself and his child dead, worse than seeing the experiment a failure -- leaving Jeb behind.

Ter Borcht had known the risks perfectly well when he volunteered -- he'd helped design the experiment, after all, and he'd been prepared to tell the subject about the risks himself -- and he'd prepared himself, mentally, to die. It would be for a good cause, after all, he'd persuaded himself -- he wouldn't die completely in vain.

But things were... well, different now. He'd been alone then, and now he had Jeb -- and though that meant he wasn't alone anymore, it also meant someone would have to grieve for him once he died. And if that someone were Jeb -- he would believe that there would have been something he could have done, that he'd failed ter Borcht in some way by not saving him.

"Are you sure you'll be all right?" Jeb said, and he couldn't bring himself to speak, caught in thoughts of _No, because I can't stand leaving you_, and _Yes, I'm fine,_ because the last thing he could do was admit he needed help, when he was the one who had given Jeb the help he needed, given all he could to make Jeb smile again. It would be too much (and he knew it was irrational to think like that) to ask that of Jeb.

And then again -- Jeb had found the words to ask for help, hadn't he?

So he said "No", and knew what Jeb was going to say before he said it (_we are so close_, he thought as he saw Jeb's eyes widen slightly, alarmed, worried for him, and so dear to his heart).

"What's wrong?" Jeb said, just as ter Borcht had known he would. "Is there something I can do?"

He almost said "No", but now that he'd started this he couldn't very well stop, and so he said "Yes" instead.

"What's the problem?" Jeb said. "I can't help you if I don't know what the problem is."

Ter Borcht wasn't used to having people listen to him.

"Just... I don't want to be alone anymore," he said, and clung to Jeb tightly, needing to know he was _there_.

"I'm here," Jeb said, and stroked his hair gently (and ter Borcht knew that Jeb was trying to be comforting, and knew he didn't have to try, that just his being there was good enough).

"I'm tired," he said, and from there it was all downhill. "I'm always tired. I'm afraid and I hurt and I _hate_ this." He couldn't meet Jeb's eyes.

"What can I do to help you?" Jeb said.

"I don't know."

"Roland, _please_," he said. "There must be something I can do."

"Just don't leave," he found himself saying.

"You already asked me that," Jeb said, with a faint trace of a smile in his voice.

"Did I?" He couldn't remember if he had or hadn't -- or if it should worry him that he couldn't remember.

"Yes, you did." Jeb's hand moved absently, brushing against ter Borcht's neck; he remembered trying to _be there_ for Jeb, giving what he could to help him. "Roland, I -- look at me."

He couldn't -- suddenly he found himself holding back tears, and he couldn't make Jeb deal with _his_ emotions, too, when he already had enough trouble with his own.

"Please," Jeb said quietly, and that broke his resolve.

Ter Borcht met his eyes, and he smiled.

"I will never leave you," he said, hesitant, quiet, sounding honest -- he _meant_ it, ter Borcht understood. "I'm the one who gets left behind -- everyone I've ever loved..." He broke off, smiling faintly again, almost bitterly. "I won't do that to you. I couldn't. I hate seeing you hurt, or -- or in pain."

"I'm in pain _now_, Jeb," he said, and it was somehow endearing how Jeb flinched away at that -- endearing, and sad, how he'd been hurt so much by others, and still couldn't bear to hurt anyone but himself.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," ter Borcht told him. "It's not your fault. I just..."

He couldn't think of what he wanted to say.

_...Oh, fuck it._

He didn't, he realized, have anything to lose.

"I need you," he said simply.

"What?"

"I need you," ter Borcht repeated. "I'm tired of pretending I don't. I do. Yes, I'm tired -- yes, I'm afraid -- yes, this hurts. But I still need you."

Jeb smiled tentatively. "OK," he said. "I can -- stay with you. Is there something you need _from_ me?"

"No," he said. "No, just stay."

"I can do that."

"I knew you would." Ter Borcht smiled. "We're standing in the middle of the hall -- we should move."

"All right." Jeb returned the smile. "Your room or mine?"

"Mine. It isn't a fire hazard."

"Neither is mine."

"Figure of speech, Jeb." He opened the door.

"I knew that," Jeb said softly.

"Of course you did." Ter Borcht kissed him on the cheek. "Now come inside, don't be skittish and stand around in the hall."

"I'm not _skittish_," Jeb protested.

"Yes, you are. Come _in_."

And Jeb wondered why people thought he was shy.


	42. Together

Chapter Forty-Two: Together

"If we're going to be... sleeping together," said Roland, with something of a customary lack of tact, "we'll have to come up with a better arrangement than this."

"Someone would find out, and that's not really something I want to explain," Jeb said, eyeing Roland where he was sitting on the bed, flicking through the pages of some random mystery novel he'd borrowed from Reilly.

He was still rather thinner than Jeb thought healthy (even though his advancing pregnancy was rapidly becoming obvious, and Jeb guessed that people other than himself and Roland were starting to get suspicious about just what had brought the German to the School, if they weren't suspicious already), but Jeb didn't dare mention it, as Roland would probably find that cause to insist that he knew what was good for him and was perfectly capable of taking care of himself.

"You're sure you couldn't find some sort of excuse?" Jeb was fairly sure he wasn't actually _reading_ the book, from the way he didn't seem to be paying attention to it.

"Yes." Jeb tried not to smile -- Roland was distracting him from the work he'd meant to be doing -- and looked back at the files he'd spread before him on the desk.

"That just means you're not trying -- oh my _God_." Roland swore softly in German.

"What?" Jeb turned to face him. "Is something wrong?"

"I -- I felt something." He gestured to his abdomen with his right hand, his left absently holding the pages of the book open. "Like a -- a _flutter_."

Jeb hadn't been thinking of anything in particular -- but with that, all the fragments of thought that had been in his head vanished, and he was caught up in what felt like, impossibly, _fear._

But why?

With the sort of determination that had brought him from gawky med student to legendary geneticist inside ten years, he went looking for the answer, chasing flyaway pieces of thought and reasoning.

Roland's voice brought him out of it. "_Jeb_."

He opened his eyes, aware that he'd stopped paying attention for a moment, and met Roland's worried gaze.

"Are you all right?" Roland said. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

The image he'd been looking for opened in his mind, memory swallowing him whole.

_The phone ringing -- Jeb picks it up and it's Connie's voice asking if Doctor Batchelder is there, and for a moment his heart is in his throat, because what if something's wrong?_

_But she sounds happy, and he listens with a faint smile spreading across his face as she apologizes for calling him at work, because she knows he's so busy now and --_

_"Connie," he says, interrupting her. "What is it?"_

_And oh, Jeb, she says, I just felt our baby kick. _

"I have," he said absently, aware that he was still holding his pen loosely in his hand, and, now reminded by the memory of Connie, of what Prescott had said, wondered sickly how he could ever have killed the woman he'd loved so much.

_It was a car accident,_ he thought coldly, cutting himself off before he could wander further down that road. _A drunk driver ran a light. I didn't kill her._

It was rational, but he didn't believe it.

"What?" Roland was looking at him with something very like curious amusement. "Whose ghost?"

Jeb fully intended to say something irreverent -- _Christmas Past,_ _J. F. K., Jimmy Hoffa -- _but when he spoke it was the truth (because something very quiet in his head insisted: he couldn't hide from Roland).

"I was thinking of Connie."

"Oh," Roland said, sounding genuinely contrite. "I didn't mean to remind you of her."

"It's fine," Jeb said, and forced himself to smile.

"No, it's not," Roland said. "You looked afraid. Why?"

(Jeb wondered, again, how he could do that -- know what Jeb needed, predict his behavior -- how he could be exactly what he needed to be.)

He almost didn't answer, but the words escaped of their own accord.

"I told you how... how I lost her. I'm... I don't want to lose you."

For a moment Roland looked almost angry, as if it were _his _fault Connie had died, as if _he_'d done something wrong by not saving her himself -- but then his expression cleared and calmed, clarifying into a faint smile.

"Then I won't get lost," he said, and his voice was almost cool, his tone slightly laughing. At some point he'd come forward to sit on the edge of the bed, and now he reached out and took Jeb's hand, clasping it between his own. "I'll stay right here. With you."

Jeb's first instinct was to jerk his hand away, but he found, instead, that his eyes were blurring with tears. He looked up at the ceiling, trying to suppress them, but it was no use -- he brushed at his eyes with the back of his free hand instead, and that seemed to work.

"Oh, come on, Jeb," Roland said quietly. "I can't be that awful, can I?"

"It's not you," he said, forcing the words past the lump that had suddenly developed in his throat.

"Then what is it?" Roland pressed, and Jeb found himself smiling despite it all -- they were so similar, in some ways, both needing to know why, needing to know if they could change something.

"It's nothing," Jeb said, and jerked his hand away. There was an odd cloud of twitchy, restless thought forming in his head, and he didn't like that, nor the memory of the last time he'd felt like this.

He needed to _get out_.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, knowing he was being abrupt, knowing he was probably scaring Roland. He stood up.

"What's wrong?"

He stepped toward the door, moving on autopilot, not looking back because he already knew the hurt look that would be in Roland's eyes, and he couldn't stand to see it.

"Jeb? What's wrong?"

He heard footsteps behind him as Roland crossed the room from where he'd been sitting, and didn't care.

"I'll be back soon," he said, and meant to be.

"No, you won't," Roland said, voice dark and soft in Jeb's ear. "You're not going anywhere until you tell me what's wrong."

Jeb turned to face him, and while he freely admitted he was startled, he wouldn't admit that he was, at least in part, cautiously beginning to hope.

"Nothing's wrong," he said numbly, looking past Roland to the wall.

"You don't act like it," Roland said, trying to meet his eyes.

"I'm fine," he said.

"If you were fine, you wouldn't..." He shook his head as if he were trying to clear his thoughts. "You blanked out while I was talking to you, you're trying to run away, and you're pretending nothing's wrong when that's clearly not the case. What's wrong with you?"

"I killed her," he said, hearing the way his voice wavered despite his attempts to keep it steady and calm, sane and

_no-I-don't-have-a-problem_

in denial.

(_The first step is admitting you have a problem._)

"Connie?" Roland's eyes narrowed. "How do you know that's true?"

"Prescott said it was me," he said, knowing he was repeating what was probably a lie.

"Why would he tell the truth? He hates you."

"I just... I know it's the truth." Jeb stepped back, putting distance between the two of them.

"Do you remember -- killing her?"

"No!" Jeb snapped, and took another step back, the door against his shoulders reminding him that further retreat would not be an option. "I remember Harrison calling me at the lab, telling me there was a car accident. If I'd killed her, I think I would remember."

"Then Prescott is wrong," Roland said. "He says that you killed her. You don't remember it. The evidence is against him."

"The evidence," Jeb repeated, as scornfully as he could, and scrabbled against the door with his palms, needing to be reassured of its solidity. "Can you even hear what you're saying? This is the death of my _wife_ we're talking about."

"I _know_ what we're talking about, Jeb," Roland said, sounding as if he were fighting to keep himself under control, and as if he might be failing. "I'm just saying -- Prescott hates you. What reason would he have to tell the truth?"

He couldn't find an answer.

But Roland backed down when he was silent, folding his arms over his chest and stepping away from Jeb, giving him space, evidently mistaking silence for something else, something probably far more impressive.

"Look, I'm sorry," he said, and Jeb saw how difficult this was for him -- how hard it was for him to confront anyone, much less Jeb. "I shouldn't have brought it up. I should have known you wouldn't want to talk about it. If you want to leave, leave."

"You just... reminded me of her," Jeb said, finding the words for what he wanted to say.

"How so?" he said cautiously.

_I loved her, and I love you_, he thought but did not say, because it wasn't accurate. Not quite. He wasn't sure what he wanted to say, but that wasn't it.

"You reminded me of her," Jeb repeated.

He smiled faintly. "You said that."

"I know I did," Jeb said, again searching for words. "But... It's... I don't know. You just do."

The smile he'd been half-suppressing spread across his face, and he swept Jeb into the sort of clingy hug that had once, what seemed like a long time ago, only made him feel awkward -- but now, when it was Roland, seemed like exactly the right thing.

"You're sweet," he said, half-laughing, and there was possibly a chance that Jeb could forget everything that was troubling him, every bad thought that haunted him, because though he'd abandoned Max, though everyone he'd loved, it seemed, had left him, Roland was here with him, alive, happy, and that was all he needed, "you're so amazing when you do that."

"I love you too," Jeb said, and hugged him, wishing it would never end.


	43. Operation

Chapter Forty-Three: Operation

Jeb was probably too old for this, but he kept doing it anyway -- because he enjoyed it, and because it was too late to stop.

"Careful with its head," he said sharply as the mutant was transferred from the gurney to the operating table. This one was valuable -- that, and he felt almost protective of it. Even though it was no longer a crucial research subject, it was about to become one again -- if the surgery went well.

Its eyes glared up at him, and he smiled by reflex -- though he couldn't see human intelligence there, it was quite possible they'd just never figured out a way to measure this one's intelligence, and that, consequently, he wasn't dealing with a dumb animal at all, but something very like a little girl.

A little girl who, doubtless, would be frightened by this strange environment.

"It's going to be OK," he said, keeping his tone steady and comforting.

Reilly glanced up at him with a faintly amused expression on his face as he secured the cuffs around the mutant's ankles, ratcheting the left one out to maximum circumference to accommodate the bone spur jutting from its ankle. This mutant was, in a way, kin to Max -- part avian, part human.

"We're going to do a little surgery on you today," Jeb said. "You know what that means?"

It nodded slightly, and his heart twisted -- someone, then, had taught it -- taught _her_ -- to understand spoken English.

That or, far more likely, she'd gained a vague understanding of when to nod and when to not nod, based on a person's intonation.

But that was the scientist in him talking, not the father.

"OK," he continued soothingly as Reilly secured her wrists. "We're going to put a little machine in your head."

She looked up at him, eyes wide but no longer panicked.

"You'll be fine," he said.

She smiled.

Jeb turned away from her. "Dr. Stevens?"

The anesthesiologist glanced up. "Yes?"

"You can start the IV now."

Jeb stepped back to allow him access to the girl. Stevens brushed impatiently past him, anxious to get things moving.

"I don't understand why you insist on doing that," he said to Jeb, fiddling with the IV.

Jeb deliberately didn't look up from his notes. The girl's anatomy was quite different from human standard, and he wanted to be sure he was clear on all the relevant differences before they began.

Reilly spoke instead. "Dr. Stevens, forgive the intrusion, but do you have any kids?"

"No," Stevens said crisply.

Jeb glanced up from his notes, putting a mild expression on his face. "Dr. Stevens, I make a practice of talking to the subjects before surgery because I believe it comforts them. The more at-ease they are, the easier any work we have to do on them in the future is."

"His point is," Reilly interrupted, "that kids really hate scary strangers performing surgery on them and treating them like they're furniture--"

"That's enough, Reilly," Jeb said, maintaining a mild façade, and stepped towards the operating table. "I think we ought to begin now -- you're already familiar with its anatomy, correct?"

"Correct," Reilly muttered.

"Right then. This should be a fairly simple surgery, and I'd like you to do most of it, if you would -- you could use the experience operating on hybrids of this class."

"I'd be happy to, Dr. Batchelder," Reilly said.

"Good. Go ahead."

Reilly was silent for a moment, looking down at the girl on the table -- anesthetized, silent, all but the side of her face draped in sterile sheets, she was no different from any other subject before an operation. Jeb rather imagined he was thinking of what he was going to be doing during the surgery.

"Scalpel, please," he said finally.

Jeb smiled to himself and passed Reilly the scalpel.

* * *

"You were great, Reilly," Jeb said afterwards, and if he was lying, didn't know it. The kid had _talent_.

"Thanks, Jeb," Reilly muttered, sounding almost... reluctant, maybe? Jeb couldn't decide if it was reluctance or bitterness he heard in Reilly's voice.

There was nothing for Jeb to occupy himself with -- the subject was back in her cage, probably waking up or already awake by now, the operating room cleaned up, everything very taken care of. So he asked a question, instead of avoiding the subject.

Harrison probably would have been proud.

"Is something wrong?"

"No," Reilly said curtly.

Jeb's fingers tightened reflexively on the binder of notes he was holding. "_Reilly_. What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

Jeb gripped the binder tighter for a moment before realizing that Reilly was, at least a little, scared of him. "Something's wrong," he said tiredly. "What is it?"

"You, if anything," Reilly snapped.

"What about me?" He _felt_ normal -- felt better than he had in a long time -- but perhaps Reilly could see something about him that he was blind to.

"You and -- Roland," Reilly said, evidently stumbling a little over the name.

"What about us?" _God, it's like pulling teeth_, Jeb thought, deliberately not tensing up defensively -- oh _damn_ it.

"You're not gonna hate me if I say this?" He smiled a little, and Jeb said what he thought, for once startled into perfect honesty:

"Never."

"You're all over each other," Reilly said, and bit his lip, waiting for Jeb's reaction.

Jeb didn't give him one, keeping his expression neutral -- if anything, he tried to look as though he were waiting for Reilly to continue... which he did.

"I mean -- you're not _obvious_ about it, but... well, you're kind of obvious about it."

"How so?" Jeb asked, always curious.

"You're always together," Reilly said, and it reminded Jeb of Roland --

_always together, never apart_

-- but that was distracting, and he forced his attention back to Reilly.

"I don't -- it's not like it's bad, but--" He was stumbling over his words. Why?

"Reilly, slow down. What are you trying to say?" Jeb said, feeling oddly disconnected from himself.

"You -- you're not all here. You don't pay attention to anything except him." The bitterness was entirely gone from Reilly's voice. Odd.

"Is that a problem?" He sounded so _cold_ -- even to himself.

"You tell me. You're always distracted -- you used to be so absorbed in your work, that's why you're _the_ Jeb Batchelder. And now... now you're not," Reilly finished, with a faint air of anticlimax.

"I've noticed," Jeb said, smiling faintly despite himself. He'd never asked to be _the_ Jeb Batchelder. The person everyone idolized -- he never existed, really. "Did it ever occur to you, Reilly, that maybe I like this better?"

"No," Reilly said after a period of silence that Jeb thought might have been a little stunned at least. "No, it didn't, Dr. Batchelder."

"Very well." Jeb nodded. "Keep track of our subject for me, please -- after all, she's mostly yours now. Call me if anything drastic happens in the next hour or two. I have some work I need to do."

"Fine," Reilly said, and Jeb imagined he could hear him thinking: _It's not fine._ "OK," and he could hear _It's not OK._ "I will," and _Please, Jeb, I need you too._

Jeb blinked as he walked away, pausing for a moment. That was... weird.

It only made sense, though, he thought as he kept walking. Reilly was his friend -- and Jeb had, admittedly, been caught up in the business of being Roland's lover lately. So caught up, really, that he'd forgotten all about being a friend to Reilly.

Well. He'd have to remedy that as soon as possible.

First, though -- he needed to have a chat with Kyle about the -- they were calling it the Voice, between the two of them.

If this surgery had been a success (as Jeb suspected it would have), then they were one step closer to being able to run Kyle's program, which was one step closer to being able to give this girl voices in her head...

Which was one step closer to the execution of Jeb's master plan.

He grinned. Things were looking up.


	44. Last Argument Of Kings

Chapter Forty-Four: Last Argument of Kings

All was not well with Jeb. It didn't take a genius to see it.

"...and there are things that we don't know we don't know," ter Borcht murmured, and shuffled the deck one more time, just to be really sure. (The cards didn't complain, or spray out all over the table as they were sometimes wont to do -- but they did look increasingly battered. Ter Borcht didn't begrudge it of them -- he _had_ been playing a lot of solitaire lately, after all.)

He chewed absently on his lip as he dealt out a new game -- he had a lot to think about (which was why he was playing solitaire in the first place).

There were things he knew that he knew: that Jeb was probably working on at least one secret plan that no one, not even ter Borcht, would be allowed to know about until it was finished. (That was par for the course with Jeb, really, ter Borcht thought fondly -- he had a bit of a habit of running off on wild goose chases, and only notifying you that he'd been on one if it was successful -- and his method of notification was typically showing up on your doorstep with the bloody goose by the neck, modestly asking if you knew any good recipes for wildfowl.)

He knew there were things he didn't know, as well -- what such a plan (that Jeb was surely working on) would be, or who he would be working on it with (if anyone).

And he knew that there were things he didn't know he didn't know.

He turned over the first card, deliberately not thinking about any of the things he did or didn't know -- this was, of course, the best way to force himself to think originally. Like this: don't think about a blue-eyed polar bear, I dare you.

See?

Ter Borcht was not a naturally graceful person. It wasn't in his nature. Some of his methods had been called graceful -- even elegant -- but the man himself was, almost by definition, the very opposite of grace. Or if he had any sort of thing that equaled grace, it was entirely by accident, and wanted everyone to know that.

So he wasn't graceful, in fact had a bit of a tendency to trip over his own feet and walk into things when he wasn't paying attention, but he did have good sense, and so when he felt the first shy ticklings of an idea poking around the edges of his mind, he let it go, deliberately not bothering it, because ideas were somewhat like cats that way. They were contrary by nature -- if he refused to bother it, it would bother him instead.

Eventually, anyway.

He let his mind wander, because that was often the best thing to do with ideas -- deliberately seem focused yet unfocused, be distracted, let the ideas attack you when they were ready. He moved cards around, gradually became aware that he was probably going to lose, and accepted that he had lost when he eventually did -- then shuffled the cards and started over.

His thoughts turned back to Jeb after a while, and he let them, because if he hadn't they would have gone that direction anyway.

Jeb seemed to be all right, as far as ter Borcht could tell -- he acted cheerful, smiling, laughing, all that.

Something just seemed slightly _off_ about him.

It was possible, ter Borcht allowed, that he was jumping at shadows -- that Jeb was fine, nothing was wrong, and he was just being paranoid.

Then again, where did being reasonable ever get anyone?

* * *

"_There_ you are."

Kyle cracked an eye open -- he'd been enjoying the nice weather for once, and now here was Jeb come to spoil it. Although at least this time he looked as though he had come bearing good news (rather than Kyle-you-are-in-so-much-fucking-trouble news) which was a bonus. "Yeah?"

"I've got good news." Jeb was actually _grinning_ -- which, Kyle found, made him look rather like Reilly. Huh. Interesting.

"Which is?"

"Your code works. For the implants, I mean -- the hearing-voices stuff?"

"Oh, that." To be honest, Kyle had almost forgotten about it after banging it into finished shape over the course of one hectic night. (He'd never been much good at deadlines.) He'd moved on to other projects since then -- there was always more code that needed writing, after all. (And debugging, unfortunately, but -- well, that was life.)

"Yeah." Jeb beamed. "Of course, we can't be one hundred percent so soon, but I'm pretty sure it's going to turn out."

"Great," Kyle said, and was torn between being thrilled that his code worked (he loved it when that happened -- and besides, he'd basically completely made it up from scratch) and being horrified that it was, more likely than not, being tested on someone who'd had no say in the matter. "Been a while since we've talked," he offered.

"It has," Jeb said. "How've you been?"

"All right, I guess," Kyle said, squinting against the sun. "You?"

"Pretty good."

"Say, how's Dr. ter Borcht been?" Kyle said suddenly. "I haven't seen him much lately, and I know you talk to him a lot."

"He hasn't been well," Jeb said evasively.

Kyle had an idea. Probably an evil idea, almost definitely a stupid one. But an idea.

"Oh, that'll pass in a few weeks," he said, deliberate to sound somewhat absent-minded.

Jeb's expression made it worth it. "What do you mean?"

Kyle kept his tone casual, but sarcastic -- _You should know this, Jeb_ was the effect he was going for. "Morning sickness usually ends early in the second trimester." He shrugged.

"How did you --" Jeb caught himself and hissed, "What are you talking about?"

"Reilly and I know, Dr. Batchelder. Sorry if I've been misleading." He wasn't, though. He really, really wasn't. "No one else does, though," he amended. "Just us, and I swear we haven't told anyone."

Jeb, eerily, didn't seem to be upset at all. "How did you find out?"

Kyle grinned, feeling very much like his old trickster-schoolboy self. Doctor ter Borcht hadn't even started _showing_ yet (as far as Kyle had noticed) -- the most one could say was that he looked a little thicker around the middle. But he _had_ been fairly gaunt when he arrived, and he _had_ been hanging around with Jeb, who _was_ known for making a practice of quietly mother-henning some of his closer acquaintances --

_Oh my God,_ Kyle thought. _I'm a pervert._

Not like he hadn't already been.

"We looked at the files, how else?"

Jeb's eyelid twitched, but he betrayed no other sign of anger.

Impressive.

"How did you _get_ the files?"

Funny. In high school the principal had asked almost the same thing. (Well, before throwing Kyle out of his office when he replied, "Magic".)

But now Kyle was, at least, more experienced, and so he went straight for the truth (it would save him a good bitching-out, if nothing else).

"Hacked into them by accident," he said nonchalantly.

"By... accident?"

"Yeah," Kyle said. "I wasn't _looking_ for them, I just sort of ran across them. By accident."

"You said that. What _were_ you looking for?" Jeb adjusted his glasses. He didn't seem angry at all. Weird.

"Why everyone's been acting weird -- you, Dr. ter Borcht, Dr. Prescott."

"So you have an explanation, now, for why Roland and I have been acting strangely. Right?"

Kyle blinked. What was going on?

It might be best to just play along, he decided. Jeb was kind of a fruit loop sometimes, but... well, at least he was the fun kind of completely nuts. "Yeah. But not Dr. Prescott."

"In a way, it does," Jeb said, and Kyle realized why he seemed so... much weirder than normal. He was off in his own little world (which was pretty typical for Jeb). When he came back he might be pissed off at Kyle, but not right now -- right now he was Thinking.

Disturb at your own risk.

"But in a way it doesn't," he continued.

"Right, right," Kyle said, shifting his weight to his other foot. "What _would_ explain him? Do you know something I don't?

"I've known him for twenty years, Reilly," Jeb said absently. "For the most part he's just -- strange overall. But he hasn't been himself lately."

"I'm Kyle, not Reilly. But I kind of thought so, too. Can't we reason through this... inside?" August in the desert isn't exactly the kindest of climates, especially not to stand in while a mad scientist rambles at you, which is a little trying in the best conditions.

Jeb blinked, then grinned. "Of course! Yeah!"

Kyle had never heard him sound so enthusiastic.

Frankly, it was pretty scary.

"I mean," Jeb continued, "reason is the only way to solve some problems. That's what I always say."

"Is it?" Kyle said.

"Yeah, actually," Jeb said, and held the door open for Kyle. "It is."


	45. Just Say It, Dammit

Chapter Forty-Five: Just Say It, Dammit

"Are you on _crack_?"

"No. Honestly. That's what he _said_, as God is my witness." Kyle held up his hands in a spare-me-your-wrath gesture. "Really, Reilly. Go ask him if you want."

"Nah, I think I'll pass," Reilly muttered. "And that was _not_ funny."

"That's why I said it. And it's not _that_ so much -- though it _is_ pretty trippy. I mean... Jeb talked to you, and he was totally cool with us snooping around?" Reilly shook his head. "I don't get it."

"That's 'cause you're a fuckwit," Kyle said cheerily. "And he's only cool with us spying on Dr. Prescott."

"Figures," he muttered.

"Yeah, Jeb doesn't like him either -- can't _imagine_ why. But we do have basically free reign to spy on him, which is... cool... Reilly?"

"What?" He belatedly realized he'd been staring blankly off into space. "Oh. Yeah?"

"You're driving a spork into your leg."

Reilly glanced down. "So I am."

"Still getting used to the meds?" Kyle asked, looking anywhere but at the spork as Reilly removed it from his thigh.

"Yeah, still getting used to the meds. It's only been two weeks, anyway."

"Ten days," Kyle said.

"According to Jeb it can take some people quite a while to completely adjust."

"Yeah, well, according to Jeb the moon is made of green cheese," Kyle said, glaring at Reilly.

"Blue," he corrected in his most innocent tone (which wasn't terribly innocent, admittedly). "And he was drunk at the time."

"Yeah, so?"

Reilly raised an eyebrow. "The man's brilliant. There's a _reason_ they gave him a doctorate."

"Yeah? Well, as _you_ should know especially, just because he's brilliant doesn't mean he can't be really, really stupid. And there are lots of stupid doctors in the world, too."

"He's not one of them. And the point being," Reilly said, "he knows what he's talking about."

Kyle crossed his arms. "Fine. Whatever."

Reilly grinned uneasily. "Do you want to go spy on Dr. Prescott, then?"

Kyle shrugged. "Yeah, sure. If you want to."

"I always wanted to be James Bond," Reilly replied, "and this is as close as I'm going to get."

"And here I was thinking you wanted to be Otacon."

"That was later, and only 'cause you wanted to be Snake. But yeah, that too."

Kyle coughed. "We should leave. I think we're causing a scene."

"Probably."

Reilly slunk out of the cafeteria.

* * *

"So... what shall I do first? I'm in his files... killing his dudes."

Reilly glanced at the screen of Kyle's laptop. "Private work, or public data and notes? And at least this time it's in English, thank God for that."

"Oh, don't be sarcastic, it doesn't suit you," Kyle said, and grinned. "Yeah, I fiddled with the interface for you so you could see what's going on. Not how I prefer to work, but it's not too bad." He rested his hand fondly on the laptop's case for a moment.

"What _is_ going on?" Reilly asked.

"Well, I could put it really technically, but essentially I'm in Dr. Prescott's private-use desktop, the one in his office. But to answer your _question_, I have no idea which, but it's password-locked."

"He's pretty paranoid," Reilly mused. "Can you open it up?"

"I already have. Let me just pull up the first document..." Kyle broke off and started tapping keys. "OK, got it."

"Good. Show me what you've got."

"Right." Kyle turned the laptop so that its screen faced Reilly -- and he flashed a quick smile. "Now read it to me, in little words, 'cause I skimmed enough to know it's way over my head."

"Glad to help," Reilly muttered, already skimming through the text -- though if anything good could be said of Doctor Prescott, he thought (not a little wryly), it was probably that you didn't _have_ to skim his writing. It was clear enough on its own. Maybe he wasn't a great writer, certainly not a literary one, but he wrote lucidly and laconically, which was a blessing compared to the ramblings of _some people_ whose work Reilly had had the misfortune to read.

But these were idle musings, intended only to occupy the nervous twitchy part of Reilly, which had nothing at all to do with the part of him that was actually reading Doctor Prescott's words -- it was the part of him, in fact, that had no desire to ever deal with Doctor Prescott again, having read this... report.

He glanced up from the screen and saw that Kyle was staring at him.

"Well," Reilly said, more conscious than he liked of the broken note in his voice, "I really can't -- it's hard to summarize."

The lightness dropped from Kyle's face and tone. "Just... just tell me what it is he's doing, OK?" He looked worried.

Given what Reilly was reading, he had every reason to be worried.

Reilly looked back to the screen, which now seemed almost hellish in its brightness. "You remember what happened to Ari."

Kyle nodded.

"This is... worse. From what I can make out." Reilly drew in a breath, trying to steady himself to say something he didn't feel he'd ever be steady enough to say. "We have guidelines about what sort of experiments you can conduct here. What you can and cannot do to the subjects. Rules. Dr. Prescott helped write them, and... this... this seems to indicate he's been breaking them. For years. These are... he's been conducting... really horrible experiments here, from the look of this document. And it says... it indicates they're all -- kept in a sub-basement level at the School. Here."

"We have a basement?" Kyle asked.

"Yeah. We do," Reilly said grimly.

Kyle had gone pale. "Then we have to go there and... and _stop_ this. Don't we?"

"We can't." Reilly shrugged. "Jeb might be able to do something, maybe, but... _we_ don't have any power to stop him."

"We can still go do _something_." He had started to pace -- with Kyle, never a good sign, and usually a sign that he was planning, angry, or both.

Reilly reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder. "Kyle. Think about it."

"There are kids suffering right now. What's to think about?" Kyle twisted away from him.

"They wouldn't know we were coming. And even if we do go free them... he'll keep working. We'll be fired and he'll just keep working."

"The filthy bastard," Kyle muttered, but he wasn't pacing, at least, and that was something.

Reilly kept talking.

"The best we can do is -- keep an eye on him. Tell Jeb. _Don't_ let him know we're watching."

"Yeah, yeah, but shouldn't we at least try and see how far he's gone? For -- for all we know those were theoretical notes. Plans."

Reilly shook his head. "This was experimental data."

Kyle grimaced. "We're fucked."

Reilly sighed. "That may be. But before we do anything else, we have to tell Jeb. Any idea where he'd be?"

"I thought I saw him in the main building. In the lounge."

"Let me guess," Reilly said, as Kyle folded the laptop shut, "he was with Roland."

"My God, how did you know." Kyle rolled his eyes. "Let's just get this over with. I'll wait in the hall, you actually tell him."

"You're a pussy, you know that?" Reilly muttered.

"I'll make it up to you," Kyle promised.

"You better."

* * *

"It's exactly the kind of thing I'd expect from him," Jeb said steadily. "I'm... not really surprised. But thank you for telling me."

Reilly grinned cautiously -- Jeb's hands were shaking, but his expression was tranquil, almost frozen. Next to him, ter Borcht's expression was equally blank. "Yeah? You've known him longer than I have, then -- I was under the impression he was a genuinely nice guy."

Ter Borcht raised an eyebrow. "I don't know how you could have gotten _that_ impression of him. I've known him for a little more than three months and I've never liked him."

"I work for him," said Reilly.

Neither Jeb nor ter Borcht made a response, but ter Borcht _did_ shoot Jeb something that looked suspiciously like a death glare.

Reilly tapped his fingers on the table. "That -- yeah, that's all I wanted to say. I've, um, got some work I need to do, so... if you'll excuse me..."

He bolted.

* * *

Kyle met him in the hall. "What'd he say?"

"Nothing much." Reilly shoved his hands in his pockets. "Dr. ter Borcht was there too." (He still couldn't bring himself to call the German by his first name. It seemed weird.)

"Told you." Kyle snorted. "And the two of them think they're being subtle."

"Subtle about what?" Reilly said innocently.

"When was the last time you saw either of them alone?"

"Well, they _are_ terribly cute together," he observed.

" '_Cute_'?"

Reilly grinned and crossed his arms. "Would you prefer I said 'kawaii'? Anyway, they are. And it's nice to see Jeb smiling, even if he _is_ scatter-brained lately --"

"To say the least. He called me Reilly the other day." Kyle burst out laughing. "But seriously, dude. Admit it. You were friends with him and now you miss that."

Reilly bristled and spoke stiffly. "We were never -- friends. Jeb doesn't -- _have_ friends."

"You do."

He tried and failed to suppress a smile. "Boyfriends don't count, genius."

"We've been just friends for _way_ longer than that."

"Yeah, yeah, but... you know... he's just not a really friendly person."

Kyle chewed his lip for a moment, then said, "Yeah. Dr. ter Borcht would probably disagree, though."

Reilly snickered. "Yeah."

As they walked down the hall, Kyle added, "Ten bucks says Doctors ter Borcht and Batchelder are _totally _fucking."

Reilly punched him lightly on the arm, but somehow couldn't stop laughing.


	46. Not Even What The Lounge Is For

Chapter Forty-Six: Not Even What The Lounge Is For

Once Reilly had left the room, Roland sighed and slumped back in his chair. "You know, I never liked Prescott, that's the truth," he said quietly, "but I never thought him capable of -- anything quite like this."

"That's what they always say, isn't it," Jeb said, and adjusted his glasses with a hand that was still shaking a little. " 'He was so quiet', 'he was so nice'."

"Except he's anything _but_," Roland observed. "Do you think we -- fuck it. What can we do about this?"

"Well, we can't go public and we can't stop him -- I looked at the files myself, and he's getting good data. We don't even have solid proof that his methods are objectionable." Jeb bit his lip. "I really don't know."

"Reilly will want to do something, though. Or Kyle will, and if he wants something so does Reilly." Roland thought for a moment, and his eyelids fluttered shut.

After some time his eyes opened and he rapped his knuckles sharply on the table. "_Blackmail._"

"How so?" Jeb couldn't quite see the chain of thought, although to Roland it was doubtless clear as day.

"He knows what I'm doing here. (God knows why he hasn't taken it public.)"

"Reilly and Kyle know too," Jeb pointed out.

"Yes, but Prescott has no reason to keep quiet. _Those_ two have no reason to go public." His brow furrowed, evidence he was trying to resume his interrupted train of thought. Then his expression cleared and he spoke again:

"See, we don't want Prescott to go public with what I'm doing -- my experiment. And he doesn't want anyone to know about _his_ experiment."

Jeb thought he had a handle on it. "So we go to him and we tell him we know?"

Roland shook his head. "No. It's still too early. I think it's be better to wait until later to tell him. Give it a few months, so we can tell him we've known for a while."

"Do we even _have_ a few months? I mean," Jeb amended, "it, eh, won't be long until Prescott, Reilly, and Kyle aren't the only other people who know, uh, why you're here. Or that something odd is going on, at least."

Roland blushed, then laughed a little, unsteadily. "I, uh -- I didn't -- I didn't exactly -- plan that far ahead," he stammered.

Jeb found himself laughing, too. "I'm more of the one for planning, I guess," he said.

"That you are. Got any ideas?" Roland leaned on him, probably not trying to be as seductive as he was.

"Well..." Jeb attempted to ignore Roland and assemble his thoughts, failed, and tried again. "They do rent apartments in town, but -- I guess we'll get there when we get there?"

"We'll figure something out."

There was something else tickling at the back of Jeb's mind, but he was quite content to let it lie there for the moment, because Roland was being distracting (again), his hand moving from where it had been on the chair up to Jeb's thigh.

"Oh, that is _not_ playing fair," he said, actually fighting to keep his voice steady.

"I don't really _believe_ in 'fair' and 'unfair'," Roland said, and somewhere in the interim his other arm had made its way around Jeb's shoulders, so that Roland was whispering in his ear. His hand, meanwhile, had gotten distracted and paused with the palm cupping Jeb's hip, which was both embarrassingly intimate and very... _nice_. "I prefer to make my own rules."

"Are you deliberately distracting me?" Jeb said and, feeling as if he ought to be doing something he wasn't, shyly slipped his hand around to press against the small of Roland's back.

Roland took that as his cue to press closer to Jeb, who gasped, startled, and was suddenly very glad no one else was in the room, because he was fairly sure that his face had gone red with a schoolgirlish blush.

"Maybe," Roland said. "Possibly. Almost definitely."

"You're --" Jeb said, and made an undignified noise of surprise -- Roland's hand had remained on his hip, but his fingers had worked their way possessively under the waistband of Jeb's trousers. "What are you --"

His fingers flexed, pressing against the fabric of Jeb's shirt, and he answered, "Distracting you."

_I figured._ "Let me --" Jeb said hazily.

Shocked by his own audacity, he leaned towards Roland and kissed him, then awkwardly brushed his lips against his cheek, the angle of his jaw -- gaining confidence, he paused, lingering to leave an actual kiss on the skin of his neck, just above the pulse.

Roland whimpered, and his hand moved urgently, clawing Jeb's shirt out of the way to press against his skin, thumb resting above the bone. His other hand moved to undo Jeb's belt buckle, and Jeb attempted to focus on laying a line of kisses down the length of his neck, but was rather less than successful as Roland's hand ventured lower, fingertips brushing over the fabric of Jeb's underwear.

He choked back a moan, biting down on his lip. Oh God. Not here. Not now.

"Roland," he said, and his hand stilled. "We -- we have to stop. We can't do this here."

"Do what?" Roland said, with a decidedly wicked tone to his voice, and a stronger accent than usual -- _do vhat_? His fingers moved gently, sending fire down Jeb's nerves, and he shuddered.

"_That_," Jeb said, his voice shaking. "Someone could -- walk in or something."

"They won't." He grinned. "Trust me."

"I do, but --" Jeb pulled away from him a little, and Roland reluctantly drew his hand back. "I mean, it's not... safe, I guess."

Roland sighed and ran a hand through his hair, which only served to ruffle it further. "Is it?"

"Yeah." He refastened his belt -- and were his hands shaking, too? They were. _Fuck_. "That, and the entire complex is under video surveillance." He flashed a quick smile, unsure whether he should tuck his shirt back in where it had come untucked or untuck it all the way around. "Smile, you're on Candid Camera."

His eyes widened. Then he grinned. "All right."

Jeb relaxed and tucked his shirt back in.

"We'll just go back to your room."

Jeb gaped for a moment, then said, "Fuck the cameras", and kissed Roland, not caring that his hair was mussed (how did it _always_ get that way?) or that they were both utter messes -- all that mattered was that Roland was still as _irrationally_ fucking good at this as he had been almost twenty years ago, and that Jeb never wanted to stop kissing him.

Although it was entirely possible, he thought, smiling, that that was just what love _meant_, and that Jeb had just been missing out on it.

* * *

As it so happened, they _were_ on Candid Camera. Sort of.

At the School, video surveillance is seen to by a crack team of well-trained guards who know how to identify and report any emergency the moment it begins. Almost every room (excluding private quarters, bathrooms, and some areas with separate surveillance) is monitored.

This, of course, means that there were two guards on duty and awake at the time. Their names were Mike and Josh, and both of them didn't give a fuck about this job.

Mike was actually sitting in front of the monitors, eating sunflower seeds. He claimed watching the screens was good entertainment.

Josh, who was sitting a few feet away playing solitaire, knew better, and was of the opinion that Mike was a raving lunatic, but, as his mother had taught him, didn't mention it. (After all, actions spoke louder than words.)

But when Mike swore loudly after apparently choking on a sunflower seed, Josh had second thoughts about the shittiness of this entire job and looked up from his cards.

"Yeah? Something up?"

"Dude! Check this out, check this out!" Mike gestured excitedly at one of the monitors -- the one showing the staff lounge, usually occupied by a few people, sometimes empty. Josh gave it a glance.

Today there were two people in the lounge -- one with its back to the camera. But the other one, the one engaged in kissing it like there was no tomorrow, was _definitely_ Doctor Batchelder.

"Dude, I thought he hated _everyone_," Josh said, watching what was happening. The hair on the other person was short for a woman, normal length for a man -- and he couldn't make out the shape of its body under the lab coat. Whoever it was, though, Doctor Batchelder, at least, was enjoying the kiss. Deeply weird.

"Yeah, me too. Wait and see if this guy'll turn around."

Guy?

Nah, Josh decided, it was just a figure of speech. Although the shape of the jaw _did_ look pretty square, from this angle. Huh.

"OK, come on," Mike muttered, eyes glued to the screen.

Doctor Batchelder finally broke the kiss, leaning away and toying with the lapels of his lab coat. The other person seemed reluctant, but didn't move.

"Come _on_," Mike said, and Josh wondered if something weren't _seriously_ wrong with the dude.

Doctor Batchelder got out of his chair, and the other figure rose to follow him, turning its face to the camera as it stood, revealing that it wasn't an _it_ at all -- to Josh, _he_ looked like that guy from Germany who'd showed up a few months ago.

Josh burst out laughing. "Holy fuck!"

"Yeah, basically," Mike agreed.

"That's... Jesus," Josh said, watching the monitor. "Maybe this isn't such a fuckoff job."

"I _told_ you it wasn't. And you've finally seen the light." Mike spread his arms mockingly. "Hallelujah _praise_ the Lord!" he proclaimed.

On the screen, unseen by either of them, Doctor Batchelder had his hand on the doorknob and was looking into space with a pensive expression. Doctor... whoever (Josh couldn't remember his name -- it was some weirdassed German thing) was looking at _him_ patiently.

"Aww, shut up," Josh said, glancing up at the monitor. "It's like a soap opera. Which makes it, like, one better than the Grade-A nothin' you normally harp on me about."

"It is _not_ nothin'."

Doctor Batchelder peered out through the wired-glass panel in the door, looking as though he were searching for someone.

When he turned back, the German guy kissed him _again_ -- lingering, maybe longingly, and holding him in a tight embrace.

"See?" Mike pointed at the screen. "That's _not_ nothin'."

"The hell it isn't," Josh said, and glanced at the pad of paper on the desk -- they were supposed to make reports of interesting non-emergency events on each shift...

Mike caught his eye. "How 'bout not, dude? Those go straight to Dr. Prescott, and him and Dr. Batchelder already got in _one_ fight since that German dude showed up."

"Yeah, I guess." And anyway, neither of them could really be fucked to fill out a report for something that really wasn't _that_ interesting in the first place.

Josh glanced up at the monitor one last time before sitting back down. Sometime while him and Mike had been talking, the two doctors had slipped out of the lounge, effectively disappearing.

It was like they hadn't even been there.

"Freaky-_deaky_," Josh muttered, and turned over a card.


	47. In Bed

Chapter Forty-Seven: ...In Bed

He knew damn well he shouldn't, but they were half-asleep anyway, and dammit, he wanted to know.

So rather than just drift off to sleep, Jeb spoke his mind and asked.

"Why did you come here?"

"Hmm? Oh. Is this a philosophical question?"

"No." Jeb had to smile, but it felt useless in the dark. "Why did you choose here -- the School, I mean -- for your experiment?"

"Huh. That's pretty philosophical, I'd say," Roland said sleepily, and sat up, bracing himself with one hand.

"Well," he began, "there were practical reasons, of course. The School is well-equipped and generally able to discreetly handle my case no matter what medical emergencies may come up. Or whatever. Dr. Prescott, even though he's a total tool, is extremely knowledgeable regarding ectopic pregnancies, in addition to which he expressed interest in the project while it was still in its early stages."

"Yeah, I can see all that," Jeb said, thinking that it was just deeply unfair how Roland could still be so coherent and not rambling and talking in circles.

"And there were personal reasons as well," Roland continued, more musingly. "I needed to get away from Marian for a while, for one thing. And for another, it's entirely possible I'm a sap, but I did want you to be close by."

"Why's that make you a sap?"

"Marian would say it revealed unprofessional, unscientific tendencies." He half-shrugged. "My thought was that wanting to be near the father of my child was only natural, but... I could be wrong."

"I don't see her logic," said Jeb, and was tempted to say that even if Roland hadn't come to the School, Jeb still would have at least gone to see him. One of his buddies in college had called it the Nice Catholic Girl rule -- if you got a nice Catholic girl "in trouble" (as the buddy preferred to put it), you at least tried to help her out -- whatever it took.

The rule didn't _quite_ apply here, but the principle behind it did. So Jeb would have _had_ to go visit, even if that was all.

Roland laughed softly. "She's a bit nutty. More than a bit, maybe -- she seems to have all kinds of grand megalomaniacal plans. But I can make a pretty good guess at what she meant." He sank into contemplation for a moment, and Jeb focused on the fact that though the air conditioning was working and he was only in his pajama pants, he still felt overheated, as if he were blushing furiously. Which he probably was, since that would be just his luck.

Roland cleared his throat and began. To Jeb his voice sounded as if he were making a solid effort to sound as clinical and detached as possible, but, considering that he was talking about himself and Jeb, not doing very well.

"She would say... she would say that behavior like that indicated that I was emotionally attached to both the embryo -- it would have been an embryo at that point -- and the other genetic donor. She'd have told me that emotional attachment would only make the experiment more difficult."

"She's not here, is she?" Jeb said.

"True." He settled back down, then laughed again.

"What?" Jeb succumbed to temptation and rested his head on Roland's shoulder.

"She saw me off at the airport," he said, "and she said the _funniest_ thing."

"Yeah?" He could hear Roland's heartbeat, hear him breathing, and it made Jeb feel like a hopeless romantic. He rather liked that -- he didn't often get the opportunity.

"Well, I was still high as a kite, from the painkillers, and -- do you know Marian?"

"No," said Jeb, fighting to stay awake.

"She's interesting. Very funny woman when she wants to be." He trailed off, then was silent for a moment.

"What did she say?"

"Let me think," he replied, sounding distracted. "We were speaking German -- a lot of people do at the Itex facility there in Lendeheim, but when she and I met it was us and a bunch of Americans... or maybe some of them were Brits, I don't remember... so when we needed to talk about stuff they couldn't hear, we'd switch, and she always made fun of my accent... But anyway." He cleared his throat. "Still listening? Or are you asleep?"

"I'm here." Jeb yawned.

"So what she said... well, there we are, standing on the kerb outside the airport. I'm ready to leave, I need to catch my flight, and as I turn to go she stops me and says, 'Roland ter Borcht, you stupid bastard, you be sure and take care of yourself, or so help me God I'll kill you myself'. So I said 'You might not have to' and went inside."

Jeb smiled and laughed a little. "Yeah, I guess that's pretty funny."

"It just came to mind. If there's a point it's that even though she's wrong, I think, about emotional attachment being bad for the experiment, she's still a very decent person."

"Yeah, one I'll have to protect you from if you do anything stupid," Jeb murmured.

Roland laughed. "Go to _sleep_."

"Fine. You too."

"Yeah. Of course."

"I mean it." Roland poked him. "You need your sleep."

"So do you."

"Fine."

Jeb closed his eyes and happily fell asleep, lying next to Roland -- knowing he'd still be there in the morning, hearing him breathe, being certain he was safe... it wasn't much, but it was enough for Jeb.

* * *

He woke up to Roland poking him in the ribs.

"Wake up. C'mon."

" 'M awake," he said, scrambling with one hand for his glasses, wiping his eyes with the other.

"Here." Roland handed him his glasses.

"Bed's too damn small," Jeb said, putting the glasses on and blinking, attempting to _force_ the world into clarity.

"Maybe it's not meant for two people?" Roland suggested.

"Nah, I think it's you." Jeb shoved him playfully.

"Yeah? What about me?" He crossed his arms, though from the smile Jeb reckoned he was still safe.

"The bed's fine with just me. _You're_ too damn big."

"I am _not_!" Roland protested, still smiling.

"Sure you are. Or what do you call _that_?" Jeb gestured to the (admittedly small) curve of Roland's stomach.

"Well, you know what I mean." And now he was blushing -- which admittedly looked good on him. "I need to go get dressed. See you at breakfast?"

"Fine," Jeb muttered. "Your shirt's on the desk," he added.

"Thank you." Roland shrugged it on and vanished.

Once he heard the door close, Jeb flopped backwards onto the bed, letting out a soft hiss of frustration. He had so much to _do._

Prescott had to be dealt with, one way or another. (He'd start by reading those files, if it were at all possible -- he had to be clear on just what Prescott had done.) He needed to check in on the first subject for the Voice -- Kyle kept promising to demonstrate the mechanics, but it kept never working out.

And, as ever, he needed... well, he wanted to try and figure Roland out. What was going on inside his head.

Jeb sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly. Roland was just so... difficult sometimes. Impossible to understand -- everything about him was confusing. From the way he smiled to the way his eyebrows arched the same way whether he was doubting or surprised -- he just seemed to be one big puzzle.

One, even more oddly, that Jeb didn't really want to solve.

Oh, he wanted to know quite a lot about Roland -- but not everything.

Because one:

That would be boring.

And two:

He wanted Roland, not just to know about him.

There was a huge difference, especially with people, between wanting to know about someone and just wanting them -- needing them, really, as much like a teenage girl as that made him feel.

Jeb got out of bed -- you had to start somewhere, after all, and today he was going to start with a shower.


	48. Who Are You?

Chapter Forty-Eight: Who Are You?

Ter Borcht didn't see himself in the mirror anymore -- he saw a broken, shattered assemblage, fragments of someone he'd once known. All he really recognized was the face -- unnervingly sharp-featured from thinness, with pale blue eyes behind steel-framed glasses.

The rest, he found, was changed -- hell, even his face wasn't as thin-looking as it had been, its edges now slightly softened, even rounded. Although you _could_ attribute that to the fact that, while ter Borcht always remembered to eat, his eating habits had been, well, irregular for a long time -- the cumulative effect of which had been to leave him, if not worryingly underweight, then at least slimmer than normal.

Which was, more and more obviously, simply not the case anymore.

Oh, he could keep hiding the truth from the School at large for a while yet, but the physical changes, besides the recent manifestation of odd fluttery sensations in his stomach... well, ter Borcht wasn't much good at lying to himself anyway. To be honest, he was fucking terrible at it.

Or at least he usually was. And rationally, he was perfectly aware of the truth of the situation.

This didn't prevent his subconscious mind from being violently in denial -- which was almost definitely what was making it so damn hard to see someone he recognized in the mirror, much less himself.

It was really quite irritating, how there could be a part of him still insisting that this wasn't happening, that if it denied that for long enough eventually he'd wake up. _No._ That just wasn't how the world worked, as scads of childhood traumas had proved to him -- no matter how hard you wished and wanted that Christine Reuter hadn't just made the obvious pun on your last name like every other girl in class had (and just when you thought she was _nice,_ too), or that the _teacher_ hadn't mispronounced your name again, or that...

Jesus. The name was a _curse_. (Ter Borcht. Nine letters. Could it really be so hard to spell? Or to pronounce? Apparently it was, judging by how many creative ways he'd seen it mangled over the years.)

He attempted to suppress a smile, then figured what the hell and grinned anyway.

Jeb had been the only person who'd ever gotten it right first try. ("So you're this Dr. ter Borcht I've heard so much about?" he'd said, with what would have been a winning smile on his face had he not been ridiculously drunk, and ter Borcht had kissed him right there for getting the damn name right. And for a lot of other reasons, actually. He wasn't _that_ shallow.)

...but, getting back to the point: no matter how hard you wished something weren't real or hadn't happened, it would still persist in _being_ real and _having_ happened. Just to be perverse, and because that was simply the law of the universe.

So what that meant, in the grand scheme of things, was that ter Borcht had gone and fallen in love with the first man who'd ever said his name right on the first try (and that he couldn't take that back -- as if he'd ever want to). And that despite what his subconscious had to say about it, he _was_ pregnant, and the strange man in the mirror _was_ him.

He grinned at the mirror, thinking: _fuck_ what his subconscious had to say, his conscious mind got along fine on its own, and could always reconcile with it later.

* * *

Jeb sighed, glancing in the mirror out of habit. It was still there, and his reflection was still in it, and it _still_ had a huge crack running down it. (He'd have to deal with that eventually. Just... not today. Or any time soon, probably.) And nothing had changed -- well, nothing that he could see. Skin still as pale, expression still as tired, hair still mostly the same color, though he'd recently noticed specks of grey where there hadn't been any before.

Was it bad that he wasn't changing? (He was in a reminiscent mood. Probably something he should regret, and it probably wouldn't end well, but it worked for the moment.) Val, Prescott, Harrison -- all of _them_ had changed since they'd first met, gotten older, changed the way they dressed, cut their hair differently, whatever: they were all different, and he'd remained the same.

Well. They weren't _all_ different -- the first thing he'd thought on meeting Roland face-to-face had been that he hadn't changed at all since the last time they'd seen each other. And, well, he _had_ changed, but to Jeb's eye he'd been like an apparition from the past: sandy-haired, thin, and tall, with all the social grace of a carp (or so it appeared to a lonely, withdrawn man who, admittedly, hadn't much in the way of social graces himself), which Jeb suspected was deliberate -- Roland was quite capable of being civil when he felt like it, but more often was deliberately tactless -- when he wasn't drunk, anyway. (Jeb had only seen him face-to-face and not drunk once before, and that fleetingly: the morning after that damn party, in the almost-gloomy half light that dared to illuminate the room, with a soft smile on his face as he turned to leave. Jeb had had the sense to say "Goodbye", and then that was that.)

But, he allowed, it did sometimes seem that every one of them had changed -- except him. The only change he could really admit had happened was, well, losing himself -- the gradual vanishing of his emotions, losing his ability to feel.

So much else had happened to him, though, since then -- breaking up with Val (being broken up with, really -- he hadn't been the one saying it was better this way, saying they just didn't _work_ together), for one thing.

Max, for another -- and if he hadn't just been put on medication, he didn't doubt that he'd have cried the first time he saw her, because she was the realization of everything he'd been working for, and she was alive, healthy, perfect -- but all it brought him then was dulled satisfaction. (And later he'd wondered what was wrong with him, why he couldn't feel the exhilaration he _should_ have felt, that he _knew_ he should have felt. That passed, in the end, as he had half-known, half-suspected it would.)

He bit down hard on his lip, clenched his hand tight into a fist, and he still couldn't stop himself from thinking: Connie, too, had happened to him in those years. Connie and Ari.

And how, how could he have let them slip his mind, even for a moment? How could he _think_ of loving someone else? How could the possibility even exist for him?

But he had changed -- where once these questions would have cast him down into despair, they now battered emptily in his head, meaningless or nearly so.

He dared to let them slip from his thoughts because Connie had been dead seven years, and he was done with grieving her -- she'd not have wanted him in mourning for so long, anyway. She loved him best when he was happy (although she'd never seen him truly happy, he thought, and now there was a little bitterness there), and she'd have wanted him not to dwell over her.

And Ari, he reminded himself, wasn't even dead. He was alive, and probably in good health -- as much as he could be, anyway. If he weren't, someone would have told Jeb.

Wouldn't they?

He smiled at himself in the mirror, less out of honest feeling than out of a need not to sulk and linger in the past. All that, he told himself, had happened a long time ago. Not to a different person, but... well.

Jeb had heard a saying, once: that a man can only step once in a river, because after that it's not the same river, and he's not the same man.

So he smiled, and thought maybe Connie wouldn't have cared that he was daring to love someone else -- maybe she would have approved.

Yes, he decided. She would have approved.

That was valediction enough for him.


	49. So What's It Like?

Chapter Forty-Nine: So What's It Like?

Everyone always asked the same question of him, in the end, no matter how they phrased it:

What's it _like_ to be Doctor Jeb Batchelder?

"What's it like to be you?" he usually restrained himself from snapping. (But that was his dark side showing, and he answered instead with pleasant lies.)

Because the truth would never satisfy them: being someone who happened to be world-famous (well, in his field, anyway) was just like being anyone else. You still breathed. You still hit snooze on the alarm clock when you didn't want to crawl out of bed. You still had to iron your clothes when they got wrinkled (although somehow Jeb had never been able to manage that on a regular basis, and so he always looked a little rumpled).

But in some ways, it was different. Getting recognized, occasionally, when you walked down the street. Being asked to give talks at colleges (although that didn't happen much anymore).

Jeb didn't really care for either of those -- they were all right, really, but nothing special.

The thing he liked, though, was waking up in the morning to Roland smiling sleepily at him -- or awaking from a nightmare to find Roland there next to him, alive and real and... sometimes that was all Jeb needed, a link back to the physical world, rather than the one inside his head that sometimes threatened to drown him, or to swallow him whole.

He'd gotten so used to obsessing over his work, so used to dreaming it, living it, existing only for it, that this felt like an exception to the rule, not getting up so early in the morning, or working all night. But sleeping in a little in the morning... well, it was the only option, sometimes, when Roland smiled at him like that and said, "You need to sleep more."

He smiled back and didn't say anything, sure that if he tried his tongue would betray him and he wouldn't be able to say anything at all. (Besides, he was perfectly content to just lie there with his eyes half-shut and look into Roland's eyes and oh dear _God_ when had he turned into such a sap?)

Being Doctor Jeb Batchelder wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Moments like that made it almost worth it.

_Almost_ because Roland's expression went strange and distant after a moment, and he got out of bed without a word of explanation (and Jeb didn't dare to ask, afraid of offending him somehow, afraid of losing what he'd worked so hard to gain -- closeness, intimacy with someone). It had been another hot August night, and even though he was shirtless he didn't stop to put his shirt on before leaving -- he barely paused to pick it up before disappearing out the door.

Jeb sat up in bed, instantly awake. _What did I do wrong this time?_ he thought.

* * *

And for once, instead of brooding over it, he actually asked Roland what was wrong. (His therapist would have been so proud.)

Well, to be more specific, he stopped Roland in the hall.

"What the hell is wrong?" he demanded.

"What do you mean?" Jeb knew he was just pretending not to know what he was asking -- sure, his expression was cool, but his arms were crossed, which definitely meant something was up. "Nothing's wrong."

"You're not acting like yourself."

"Really." His expression went more mask-like, and Jeb wondered what he was hiding -- what he thought he couldn't say. "I feel fine."

"You don't act like it." Jeb glanced around. There was no one else in the hall. Good.

"What do I act like, then?" He sounded cold and distant -- but not honestly so. He sounded as if he were trying very hard to _seem_ cold and distant.

"I don't know." Jeb forced himself to smile. "How -- how do you feel?" he offered lamely.

"Honestly?" His façade seemed to crack for a moment, and Jeb glimpsed something dark, almost animal, there before the cool, cold look came back.

"Of course," Jeb said, feeling helpless as always. "Is there something you _want_?"

"Yeah." He licked his lips, and then the façade _broke._ "You."

"_Oh_," Jeb said, and had no time for anything else before Roland pushed him up against the wall and kissed him.

Jeb had gotten more or less used to the way Roland kissed -- he knew that he preferred to be gentle, that he always broke it off too soon.

This was... _different_. Rougher. More intimate, more exactly what Jeb wanted, what he needed -- what he'd been afraid to say he wanted, in case Roland wasn't willing to give it.

Fuck. It was just _more_.

And Roland tended to be strangely still when he kissed, as if it took up all his attention (which was rather sweet, or at least that was how Jeb found it).

This... this went against all Jeb's memories and collected data (except for a fragment from sometime after the Christmas party, a memory of Roland's hands hot and urgent, pressing against Jeb's bare skin).

He _liked_ it.

Another thing he found was different: where Roland had once, all that time ago, been almost rushing and clumsy, now he seemed willing to take his time.

It was with difficulty that Jeb remembered they were standing in the hall.

He arched away from Roland, broke his silence and said only, "Inside."

He understood, and they stumbled (you could really only call it stumbling -- it certainly wasn't anything as coordinated as walking) through the still-open door into Jeb's room.

Roland had the presence of mind to kick the door most of the way shut, which gave Jeb a moment to thank God (or whatever higher power watched over scientists -- perhaps a very ashamed Heisenberg or Turing or someone) that now only a very determined voyeur would be able to catch him making out with Roland like they were in high school.

Not that Jeb didn't like it -- he'd be damned if he could remember the last time someone had made him feel like this, this strange emotional rush of _oh-please-God-touch-me-now-yes-there_. Well. Someone who wasn't Roland.

That meant, he knew, that it had been far, far too long.

And Roland was just _looking_ at him, which Jeb wasn't about to stand for -- not on his life.

So Jeb jumped him.

Well. Not literally.

Bit he didn't say anything -- didn't ask "Is this all right?" or whatever stupid fucking thing you were maybe supposed to ask -- just jumped in feet-first and kissed him deeply.

"_Fuck_," Roland said, justifiably breathless, when Jeb pulled away from him again. "How did you -- where did you learn that?"

"From you." Jeb grinned. "Where else?" He was perfectly aware he wasn't making very much sense, but also perfectly aware he didn't give a damn.

"Val, I thought -- maybe?"

"She hates kissing," Jeb said. (Which had been part of the reason he'd responded so, well, eagerly to Roland at the party -- sure, Jeb was OK with the fact that Val didn't like kissing, it just wasn't her thing, but dammit, it sure as hell was his, and Roland happened to be good at it.)

"That -- explains a lot, really," Roland said, and bit his lip delicately. (Jeb had no idea how he pulled that off, but oh _fuck_ it turned him on.)

"Really? Why did you _think_ I was all over you at that party?" _Stop talking,_ Jeb was too polite to say. _Kiss me again. Touch me. Throw me down on the bed and fuck me. Anything. Please. Just stop looking at me like that._

"You were drunk, remember?" He grinned, and to his shock Jeb saw that he was holding back deliberately. _Why would you do that?_

"And you weren't?"

"Not _as_ drunk."

Jeb remembered he didn't have to stand for this, and said, "I _hate_ it when you're a tease."

"Why, what do you mean?" Roland said innocently.

_You're just standing there, and I can tell you want the same thing I do._

"If either one of us is a tease, I think it's you," he continued, grinning more and more wickedly. "Did it really take you this long?"

"I'm a little slow on the uptake," Jeb breathed, pressing closer to him, remembering that Roland had _loved_ that when they were together after the party, that he'd loved when Jeb wasn't afraid to be physically closer to him.

"You could have just asked."

_Well, fuck you too._ Jeb gathered up the rags of both courage and rational thought. "You could have just asked _me_ how I felt."

"All right then." He grinned, pressing his body closer to Jeb's. _You are a minx,_ Jeb thought. _And you are going to suffer for it._ "How do you feel about me?"

"I want you to stop fucking _teasing_ me," Jeb said, shocked by his own brazenness. "Don't make a promise you can't follow through."

"What promise have I made?"

_Well, you didn't say it._

Jeb couldn't answer that one.

"I _like_ teasing you," Roland said. "It's _fun_."

"You're horrible."

"I'm a mad scientist, dear," he said, and he was so achingly close, and he wasn't _doing_ anything, he wouldn't _move_.

"So am I." _Can we just get to the fucking part now?_ a rather brash, impudent part of Jeb's subconscious piped up.

Roland made a noise that was half sigh, half _impossibly_ hot moan. "If that's what you want."

_I just said that out loud,_ Jeb realized, then thought, _Fuck that_, and abandoned rational thought completely.

Good riddance to bad rubbish. Being with Roland -- making out with him like they were both horny high school kids again -- was more fun anyway.


	50. Who We Are

Chapter Fifty: Who We Are

"Why did you leave?" Jeb said, breathing raggedly. Roland's hand was hot against the small of his back, but he still needed to know -- he had to make sure something wasn't _wrong_.

"I was afraid," he said, half-smiling as he avoided Jeb's gaze. "Because... I looked at you and I was... afraid that you wouldn't want this -- that you wouldn't want me. I couldn't force you to do something you didn't want. So... I left."

_You should have known_, Jeb thought, and added fondly, _but you have to have everything spelled out for you, don't you?_ He said only, "I'm sorry -- I should have told you", because suddenly he was aware of how weak he must seem, practically boneless in Roland's arms, melting into his touch.

"Told me what?" Roland said, and exhaled gently against the skin of Jeb's neck. They were still standing, though Jeb didn't know why -- intertwined as they were, it would have been much more productive to just get to the bed already. Especially given how weak his knees felt -- he was fairly sure Roland was mostly responsible for keeping him on his feet at all at the moment.

"That..." Jeb trailed off, tried to catch his breath. It didn't work, and he could still feel his pulse beating rapidly. _Do you know what you do to me?_ he thought. "If you'd asked," he said, "I wouldn't have said no."

"If I'd asked what?" He leaned against Jeb, pressing his body closer, and Jeb suppressed a startled gasp. He'd never quite get used to casual intimacy like this -- he wasn't used to someone actually _wanting_ to touch him, and acting on that desire. With Val... with Connie as well, there had been a frozen caution between them, as if they were afraid of offending him, afraid of going too far, overstepping some unspoken boundary.

Roland seemed utterly unafraid -- if there was an unspoken boundary, he felt perfectly free to cross it, and to take Jeb with him.

"If I'd asked what?" he repeated, and Jeb realized he'd forgotten to answer.

"If -- if I wanted you," Jeb said, stumbling over his words and clinging all the tighter to Roland's shoulders, needing to know he was _there_.

"Do you?" he said.

Jeb couldn't speak -- he clung to Roland, praying _Please don't leave me; please don't go. Don't leave me here alone. Don't abandon me. Just stay here with me. Don't leave me._

"I will never leave you," he said, and Jeb realized that again he'd said aloud something he meant to keep to himself.

Maybe this time it was for the better, though.

"Yes," Jeb whispered, and couldn't have met Roland's eyes if he tried. He could feel the tremors starting, the way his shoulders had started shaking -- there were, somehow, tears welling in his eyes, and if he kept thinking about his past, about all the times he'd been left behind, he knew he was going to end up sobbing in Roland's arms, grieving for the dead he hadn't the heart to bury, crying instead of...

_Instead of what, Jeb_? he thought, with a wry, almost bitter little smile starting on his lips.

"Yes," he said in a stronger voice, and even though he heard it shaking he didn't care -- as long as the message got across, it would be all right. "Yes. I -- I --"

And to his horror, his courage broke.

But Roland didn't say a word -- he stayed there, holding Jeb tightly, being what Jeb had always needed and never dared to ask for: someone strong, who wouldn't leave him or abandon him, who would be there for him, who would wait like this for him to find an answer.

"I need you," he said, and remembered to breathe. "I -- I want you."

Jeb bit down hard on his lip, feeling ashamed and small and petty -- there would always, no matter what, be a voice in his head that forbade him to ask for help, to admit weakness, to even show that he had feelings. Admitting he was human enough to have wants and needs -- that was far beyond him.

Except, somehow, now.

"Good," Roland said, and something about the hoarseness of his voice sent a shiver down Jeb's spine. "Good."

God -- his skin was so warm.

"Because I need you too," he said, his voice soft in Jeb's ear. "And I left because of that -- I didn't want you to feel as though I was forcing you into anything."

"What were you thinking?"

His hand was at the back of Jeb's head, stroking his hair, and Jeb felt _safe_ -- safe enough to let go, to give in and arch his neck, pushing harder against Roland's hand, letting his eyes flutter closed, feeling utterly weak and somehow not caring.

Roland leaned forward and brushed his lips against Jeb's forehead.

"I looked at you," he breathed, "with your eyes half-open like that -- like they are now -- and I thought that if you didn't stop looking that way right after you woke up, I wouldn't be able to control myself."

"Then don't," Jeb said, and pulled him closer for a proper kiss.

The first time, all those years ago at the Christmas party, had been gentle and shy -- and lately, Roland had been just as gentle, seeming to strive never to hurt Jeb, to let him make the first move if he wanted to.

Well. That was all well and good, but right now Jeb didn't want gentle -- he wanted Roland to be rougher, more assertive.

And he _was_ -- his hand moving from the back of Jeb's head down his neck and around to just above the collar of his shirt, tracing thin trails of fire. Jeb had barely gotten dressed before rushing out into the hall to confront Roland -- he'd just thrown on yesterday's shirt over his pajama pants, hardly stopping to button it for decency's sake.

Now all that seemed to have gone to waste, with the way Roland was slowly _un_buttoning it, seemingly determined to drive Jeb completely insane with the pace he was going.

"You need help?" he said, and undid the last few buttons himself, threading his hands past Roland's.

"Maybe," Roland answered, and then clasped his hands around Jeb's wrists. "Jeb, just tell me what you want."

"Stop being afraid that you'll hurt me," Jeb said softly. "And... just... I like it when you're gentle with me, but right now I want you to be rough."

Roland sighed. "I can do that, if you want," he said, releasing Jeb's wrists from his grasp, skimming one hand down Jeb's side, stroking the skin.

"Yes," Jeb said, not believing that he could really say such things. "Yes. That's what I want."

"You're sure?"

"I'm tired of playing games," he said.

Roland grinned. "All right, then. Tell me what you want me to do."

What he'd been talking about -- what he'd been asking for -- finally caught up to Jeb. "I can't," he stammered, but couldn't find the strength to pull away from Roland completely. "I can't."

"Then I'll improvise," Roland said, his hand resting now on Jeb's hip, just at the waistband of his pajama pants. "If that's all right?"

"It's fine," Jeb said.

Roland's other hand crept up the back of Jeb's shirt, playing over his vertebrae as if they were the keys of a piano, brushing over them one by one. "You trust me?"

"Always," Jeb breathed, and, moving from his paralysis, shyly moved one hand up to rest on Roland's chest. _He_ was still wearing a shirt -- a state that Jeb intended to remedy as soon as possible.

Jeb was fascinated by the way that he could feel, however faintly, Roland's heartbeat under his hand. Maybe it was just some weird fluke, but it was _there_, a steady pulse near the surface of his skin.

"OK," Roland said. "I can't promise you that I'll be any good at this, but I can promise to try."

There was something in his eyes, in his smile, just then, that reminded Jeb of who he was, and of what he needed.

"Stop _talking_," Jeb said, and kissed him again.

This -- ah, this was what he'd been looking for, he thought in an almost dreamlike trance, as Roland took control, moved from focusing on Jeb's lips to leaving a line of small, dry kisses along his jaw to --

"Oh _God_," Jeb gasped, and if Roland hadn't have caught him he would have fallen to the floor, because that _thing_ he'd done at the soft spot where Jeb's jaw met his neck had made his already weak knees give out entirely.

"Are you all right?" he said, stroking Jeb's bare chest with an absently affectionate hand.

"Keep doing that," Jeb said breathlessly.

"This?" He brushed his lips over the same spot where jaw and neck intersected, and Jeb was grateful to be caught by him again -- it was far better than gracelessly collapsing to the carpet. And, well, he liked it better -- having someone to catch him when he fell. It made him feel horribly weak and dependant, but he loved knowing that someone was _there_ for him -- that someone cared.

"Yeah." Jeb let his eyes flutter closed for a moment. "I like that."


	51. Secrets That You Keep

Chapter Fifty-One: Secrets That You Keep

Jeb sighed in his sleep, and ter Borcht stroked his hair absently. He'd fallen asleep almost immediately... after, sprawled awkwardly across the bed next to ter Borcht. There was some part of him that was permanently sleep-deprived, ter Borcht decided -- that, or he'd never lost the talent of getting sleep whenever there was an opportunity.

And he was cute when he was asleep -- sure, he had a tense kind of handsomeness when he was properly awake, but once he was asleep that rigidity of bearing, that cautious resistance, disappeared, leaving him looking as if he were at peace. Jeb's shoulders, normally held in a stiff, forced posture, had relaxed in sleep, and there even seemed to be a small smile on his lips.

He seemed oddly small, curled half on his side next to ter Borcht -- as if he were larger than life when he was awake, trying to be _The_ Doctor Jacob Batchelder for everyone, and it was only now that he could just be... well, Jeb. And he seemed fragile, too, the bones of his wrists prominent under his pale skin, shadows under his eyes, hair falling across his forehead.

Fifteen years hadn't changed much about him.

Ter Borcht remembered him in dizzy flashes of memory -- Jeb laughing; Jeb looking at ter Borcht wide-eyed, as if he were surprised that ter Borcht was touching him (when ter Borcht knew he wasn't surprised at all); Jeb arching his back, crying out ter Borcht's name; Jeb still asleep when ter Borcht crept out of bed, knowing he had to leave, knowing they had no chance together anyway.

But there were specks of grey in his hair now, where there had been none then -- and there were wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, worry lines on his forehead. Ter Borcht liked him better this way -- he hardly remembered the Jeb of fifteen years ago, anyway, and he suspected Jeb didn't, either.

Ter Borcht liked having him close like this -- he liked knowing that Jeb was safe. And besides, ter Borcht liked being depended on -- even if Jeb was only depending on ter Borcht not waking him, Jeb still _needed_ ter Borcht to stay, and ter Borcht liked being needed. It made him feel important.

Jeb's lips moved, and he whispered words ter Borcht couldn't quite make out -- a name, maybe, from the way he seemed to be calling it out. Then his eyes snapped open, and without a word of explanation he clung tightly to ter Borcht's arm.

Ter Borcht stroked his hair, and hugged him tightly -- Jeb was slow to wake, and whatever he'd been dreaming, it couldn't have been good: his heart was racing. (And ter Borcht smiled to himself at the rush of protectiveness that swept through him at that thought -- it was either smile or be freaked out, and he wasn't in the mood to freak out.)

Gradually, Jeb's heartbeat slowed, and the frightened tenseness in his... well, you couldn't call it bearing, since he was lying down, but the tenseness about him had abated.

"You OK?" ter Borcht forced himself to ask.

"Yeah," Jeb muttered into ter Borcht's chest. "Could use a shower."

"Go take one," ter Borcht said, letting go of him (and why was that so goddamn hard? Jeb could take care of himself, so why was ter Borcht so damn _worried_ for him?).

"'Kay," Jeb said, dragging himself out of bed.

Ter Borcht watched him for a moment, then closed his eyes and tilted his head back, resting it against the wall behind the bed.

Loving Jeb was a full-time job -- and ter Borcht found himself enjoying every minute of it.

* * *

The cafeteria was satisfyingly empty -- which only made sense, given that it was mid-morning, by which time everyone who believed in breakfast had long since eaten it, and those who believed in lunch weren't yet ready to perform their professions of faith.

Jeb seemed more relaxed without people watching him, judging him (well, ter Borcht, amended, he had no idea just what the nervous young programmer eating cereal in the corner was thinking -- but he'd have been willing to bet it didn't involve either Jeb or ter Borcht, and he was almost sure it didn't involve any judgment of Jeb based on the fact that he and ter Borcht were eating breakfast together).

He wasn't all there, ter Borcht decided was the best phrasing.

Well, Jeb never really was, but he seemed unusually distracted.

"Sorry," he said abruptly, just as ter Borcht was about to ask him what was wrong, or how his coffee was -- anything to get him talking.

"Sorry for what?" ter Borcht said, prodding a rather anemic-looking piece of fruit with his plastic fork. It didn't seem terribly excited to be at the School -- then again, who was?

"I talk in my sleep," Jeb said, and looked as though he were grateful to have coffee to stare at, rather than be forced to -- God forbid -- make eye contact with ter Borcht while he spoke. "I know I do. And I must have said something really terrible, for you to be all clingy like that with me. So I'm sorry for that."

"Has it ever occurred to you," ter Borcht said, "that maybe I _like_ being 'all clingy like that'? And you shouldn't be sorry for something like that -- for one thing I couldn't hear what you were saying, and for the other you were asleep."

Jeb blinked.

"What _were_ you saying, anyway?" ter Borcht continued innocently, figuring that one might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb, and it couldn't hurt to find out what Jeb had been talking about in the process.

Jeb was silent, and ter Borcht hoped irrationally, knowing it wouldn't be his luck, that Jeb would admit to have been talking about the great sea turtle conspiracy, or asking his auntie for more whale skins, or looking for his pet terrier... anything, really, as long as it wasn't dramatic.

Ter Borcht _hated_ dramatic, especially when it came to Jeb..

But as it has amply proved, the universe is perverse -- and so, precisely because ter Borcht hated dramatic, dramatic was what he got.

"I was," Jeb said, with the perplexed, cloudy expression on his face of someone trying to recall a dream some time after having dreamed it. "That is... you were..." He adjusted his glasses. "I can't remember. I think... you were -- in trouble of some kind. You were hurt, bleeding. I was trying to help, and I kept calling your name because you kept falling asleep, but you wouldn't wake up." He frowned. "You wouldn't wake up," he repeated, as if trying to stir up the thought that followed. "I think maybe you were dead."

Whatever it was that followed after, he couldn't find it, and the cloudy expression faded after a moment. He shrugged. "That's all. Just a dream."

Ter Borcht wondered if this was the time to retell the old family chestnut about how his grandmother had seen the future in a dream, and...

She'd seen the future. And she'd always said that that was what dreams were for -- seeing the future, knowing things before they happened so that you could plan to avoid them.

Then again, the last time he'd told the story about her, the person he'd been telling it to had cut in with a story about his grandmother, and the time she woke herself up insisting that there were no persimmons in Antwerp, nor any to be found in Belgium at all.

"Yeah, sure," ter Borcht said, "just a dream," and tried to persuade himself that for a minute he'd been, if not actually convinced, then trying to convince himself, that he somehow had _more_ than a few months to live. Which was nonsense, even if the reason he believed that was that if he lived he'd have more time to spend with Jeb. He knew he was going to die, and that was that. Why he was suddenly having trouble with the concept he didn't know.

"Sure," he said, and stared resolutely at the table, unable to meet Jeb's worried gaze.


	52. I'll Be Back

Chapter Fifty-Two: I'll Be Back

"OK." Reilly fiddled with his headset and glanced at Kyle. "You ready?"

"If you are." Kyle flashed him a quick smile.

"OK. Go."

Kyle screwed his headset tighter into his ear, wiped his hands on his jeans, and clambered from the table up into the ceiling. Once he had his balance, he slipped the ceiling tile back into place.

"OK," Reilly whispered, and glanced around the deserted room. Once again, they'd commandeered the Animal Testing lounge for their dark dealings, but Reilly still made a practice of being reasonably paranoid about it -- Kyle claimed to have temporarily disabled the security cameras, but they could have been... reabled. "You know where you're going, right?"

"More or less. That lab with all the gross-ass blood." Kyle sighed into the connection, making it crackle with static. "You didn't tell me it took so fuckin' long to get there."

"I would've just asked you to pick the lock," Reilly murmured, knowing damn well he didn't need to, with the cameras disabled -- but knowing that Kyle liked it when he at least made a pretense of secrecy, "but I didn't want even the possibility of you getting caught on Candid Camera. The other time, when I went, we could've risked it, but..."

"This is serious shit," Kyle said, finishing the sentence for him.

"Exactly." Reilly glanced down at the rough map he'd sketched out. "Tell me when you get there."

Just a few minutes later, Reilly heard a loud thump from his headset, immediately followed by Kyle swearing a blue streak.

"I'm gonna guess you're there," Reilly muttered.

"_Fuck_ -- I mean, yeah. Yeah, I'm here."

"You OK?" The last thing Reilly needed was for his coconspirator to be incapacitated. 'Cause that would kind of suck.

"Fucked up my ankle. I'll live." Kyle swore again.

"Good." Reilly glanced at the map again. "Now, where are you relative to the door?"

"Facing it."

"Excellent. Open the third cabinet back from the door."

"Will do." Reilly heard doors opening and closing. "'Kay. What am I looking for here?"

"There should be a key on a hook just inside the cabinet door."

Kyle sighed. "Ain't got no, my man."

Reilly rolled his eyes. "OK. The layout should go like this: door, two cabinets, and you should be opening the next cabinet."

"Wait, which door is that again?"

Reilly bit down on his lip, and answered as kindly as he could. "There's only one, fuckface."

"The hell there is! There's one door leading to the hall, and another one going to, uh, some kind of storage closet."

Reilly groaned. "The one that goes to the hall."

"OK." One cabinet door shut, and another opened. _Hey, isn't that a motivational poster?_ Reilly wondered. "I've got the key now."

"Open the door to the closet."

Rattling noises over the connection.

Reilly found himself holding his breath.

"OK. It's open."

"Go in." He waited a moment, heard the sound of a door opening, then prompted, "What do you see?"

"_Fuck_," Kyle breathed, then amended, "Uh -- I mean -- fuck." He fell silent, then offered, "Stairs."

"OK," Reilly said, trying to be patient. "Describe. The. Stairs."

"Concrete. Well-lit. Clean. Suspiciously unsuspicious." Kyle paused, then added, "I'm going down."

Reilly snorted, then put on his best poker face and said, "OK. Tell me what's at the bottom when you get there."

He giggled to himself. _I just said that. Ha ha._

"Will do." He shut the door. "You know," he mused, "what you said about picking the lock instead?"

"Yeah?" Reilly tapped his fingers on the table. Kyle's footsteps continued in the background.

"It wouldn't have mattered if I got caught doing that. The hall cameras I can kill. The lab cameras I can kill. If there's a camera down here, I can't kill it." He sighed. "I know you have a plan for this. It better be good."

"My plans always are," Reilly replied. "Fire drill 'em. You're a maintenance tech."

"I'll try." The footsteps stopped. "Fuckin' longass stairs," he muttered, then spoke up. "OK. There's another door here."

Reilly closed his eyes. "Can you see into the room behind it?"

"It's a solid door. Cold, feels kinda heavy. I think it's steel."

_What the fuck are they keeping in there?_ "OK. Open it. Go inside."

"Will do."

Heavy breathing -- Kyle, he figured.

Kyle's voice, hissing, "Holy _fuck --"_

Silence on the line.

"Kyle?" Reilly shifted uneasily in his chair.

Silence. He couldn't even hear breathing.

"_Kyle_?" He listened for a moment. "Goddammit. _Kyle_! Kyle, if you don't answer, I'm calling Security." Fuck not getting caught. If one of them got hurt -- if _Kyle_ got hurt -- by whatever they kept down there...

He heard a hiss, then Kyle's voice, shaking. "I'm here."

"What's happening?"

"Not, uh -- not much. I just freaked out. It's, uh, a lab. There are... four transport cages on the floor." He heard footsteps in the background. "Two are empty. Two unconscious, uh -- experiments in the others."

Reilly bit one thumbnail. "OK. Can you describe them?"

Kyle's voice tightened. "One boy, one girl. Both about seven, I think. They, uh... look like they might be siblings. It looks like they have wings."

_Fuck._ "OK." Reilly took a deep breath. "Anything else?"

"Open door to my left. Leads onto a hallway, it looks like. Airlock thingy behind me. Came through that to get in here. Uh... seems like the usual lab stuff. That's it."

"OK. Go through the door."

"Doing that now."

Footsteps.

"Keep narrating for me," Reilly said, wishing he had a cup of coffee or something. Something to do with his hands.

"It's a hallway... runs up to another hallway in a T-junction. Uh... there's some doors along it, five or six. I'm right at the end of it... uh, six doors, three on each side. All the doors are shut, and they're all solid, so I can't see inside."

"OK. Walk along the hallway until you hit the T-junction."

"OK." A pause, and the sound of footsteps.

Reilly tapped his fingers on the table.

"Shite!" said Kyle. "I mean. Uh. I was wrong. I'm at, uh, the last door on the left before the T-junction. It's open, and I can see inside. It's... it looks like a lab of some kind."

Reilly felt cold all of a sudden, and thought, _Maybe my spider-sense is tingling._

Because God knew, Kyle was enough of a dumbfuck that, if he had a spider-sense, and if it was tingling, he wouldn't pay it any attention. And Reilly would have to do it _for_ him.

Not that Kyle couldn't be awesome...

"Go in," Reilly said.

"OK."

If you'd asked him later, Reilly might have claimed he felt the icy hand of destiny upon him at that moment.

This would be horseshit.

For one thing, destiny's hands are of a fairly average temperature.

And for the other thing he'd just be screwing with you anyway.

He just had...

Well, he had a bad feeling about it.

Just like in the movies.

He heard Kyle gasp, immediately followed by a soft "holyshit" and the sound of running footsteps.

"Kyle?" Reilly hissed. "What's happening?"

A door slammed, and he heard Kyle breathing heavily into the mike.

"Kyle? What did you see?" _The Second Coming_? He had a feeling that wouldn't go over too well, so he just added, "Come on, man. Talk to me."

"I'm not making this up," Kyle panted. "But as God is my witness, I just saw a motherfucking T-800."

Reilly made the only response he could.

"You're. Shitting. Me."

"And I didn't even bring a camera," Kyle said. "I'm not fucking kidding."

"Please don't say it had skin."

"Thank God, no. Although I dunno which would have been worse. Metal skeleton with glowing eyes was pretty damn bad, but I dunno."

_OK,_ Reilly thought,_ there's one question finally answered: those fuckers really are worse in real life._

"I can't be-fucking-lieve this shit," Reilly said, and gripped the edge of the table. "Get back here. I think we gotta talk."

"You _think_? Don't hurt yourself. I'll be back -- as soon as I can."

"Don't you say another word," Reilly muttered darkly, "or so help me God I'll kill you myself."

It took Kyle a minute before he got the joke, which resulted in Reilly hearing him laugh overhead _and_ over the headset.

"You are so slow," Reilly said as Kyle jumped down from the ceiling onto the table.

"You're the smart one," he said, and turned his headset off. "I'm just the dumb muscle."

Reilly would have punched him, but he didn't feel like it.

"Fuck," he said instead. "I can't believe it. They built fucking Terminators."

"Well, that's what it _looked_ like," Kyle said. "And I mean I could have been wrong, I wasn't looking at it for that long."

"It was like a metal skeleton, right?"

"Yeah... I mean, what I saw of it..."

Reilly rested his head in his hands. "We're fucked."

"Probably. I mean... didn't they _watch_ the movies?" Kyle wondered.

"I'll bet you they did," Reilly said. "And that they thought it was a brilliant idea."

"So what are we gonna do?"

"What do we always do?"

"Try and take over the world?" Kyle shook his head, smiling a little bit. "We keep looking. We make a note of it. We try and figure out how it fits into the big picture. Once we think we have a picture big enough to make a judgment from, we take it to... someone."

Reilly patted him on the head. "You're a good little minion."

"Yeah. Only for you, master." Kyle grinned at him.

Reilly was still thinking about mechanical skeletons, fire, and the end of the world. He didn't even notice.

Who had time for smiling when there was a world to save? (Although maybe it didn't really need saving, Reilly found himself thinking. The world had gotten along fine for a long time without being saved.) Or when there might be killer robots lurking a few feet beneath your shoes?

Yeah. Fuck it.

Reilly grinned back, figuring he needed to sort out his priorities anyway.


	53. Fate

Chapter Fifty-Three: Fate

Kyle looked _far_ too happy, Reilly decided.

"This better be good," he said.

"It is," Kyle said. "I found out who designed those fuckers."

"_How_?" Reilly asked. _They don't even officially exist._

"I'm magic." He grinned. "And -- I'm gonna go talk to her now, so bye."

_Her?_ Reilly wondered. _Cool._

* * *

"Robots should _not_ be able to do that," Kyle muttered.

The robot he'd been watching stopped, as suddenly as if its joints had frozen. Its designer laughed and blew a cloud of smoke at Kyle. "Didn't you ever see the _Terminator_ movies?"

Kyle wished he had a drink to choke on.

"Yeah, but..." Kyle said helplessly as the robot sprang back to life, moving evenly through the dust it had raised.

"Connor here --" the designer indicated the robot with one hand "-- can do anything a human can, and then some. He has limited artificial intelligence, and he seems to improvise well. Knows every kind of gun there is, mimics voices, even recognizes faces. I would say he's about as smart as your average two-year-old, but getting smarter every day. Or maybe an autistic ten-year-old -- brilliant with weapons, very strong, but his interpersonal skills need work."

_Who the hell needs interpersonal skills when you can just break faces_? Kyle thought.

"So what keeps him from -- turning on us?" Out in the practice yard, the robot had come to a stop -- but even in the harsh desert sun, Kyle could see the way its eyes were still lit up.

Très creepy.

"He's unarmed -- and even if he were, he can't act unless he has a mission. I know he looks dangerous, but to him this is just... warm-up exercises."

Kyle wished he could see under the designer's sunglasses -- he couldn't see the expression in the eyes beneath them, and it made him nervous. "You said he could improvise, though. Couldn't he -- invent a mission?"

The designer doffed her sunglasses, squinting at Kyle against the glare. "Connor is, despite his appearance, _not_ like the Terminators in the movies. He's programmed with a sense of right and wrong. He can't kill a human being unless they're his target. And even then, he's programmed to prefer to incapacitate, rather than kill."

_Fuck me sideways,_ Kyle thought. _A pacifistic Terminator._ "You compare him to a little boy. Does he ever wonder why he's different from the other kids?"

"Connor's never met another normal child." The designer crossed her arms and looked out at her creation. "But I believe it's important never to lie to him. He's always known he's artificial."

"Connor", whether or not he was a real boy, looked like a mechanical skeleton.

_No shit he knows,_ Kyle thought. _If he's ever seen a mirror he knows._ "Are you designing some kind of, uh --"

"Skin? Yes," the designer interrupted.

Kyle snapped her a pleading look. "Please don't say it looks like the Governator."

She snorted. "'Course not. He doesn't _blend_. Connor has to blend in, or he wouldn't be very good at his job."

"Yeah. Sure," Kyle said. With those glowing red eyes, Connor wouldn't blend in anyway. And Kyle couldn't be sure Connor wasn't watching him. "Couldn't he just -- incapacitate people, and not have to blend? If he worked fast?"

"He's fast, yeah," she said fondly. "But Connor is designed to be low-impact -- just get in and get out, as fast as possible. He doesn't kill, he doesn't incapacitate -- not unless it's absolutely necessary. A six-foot, hundred-forty-pound metal skeleton does _not_ blend in."

"You know how much he weighs?"

"I _built_ him." She smiled. "He could have been heavier -- the prototype was a solid two hundred pounds, but we went all-out and got the best materials. Same kind of light metals they use in planes and prosthetic limbs. A good bit of the weight is lead shielding for his power core."

_Looks like a T-800 and has the same power source. I don't be-fucking-lieve this._ "Can I meet him?"

"Everyone always asks," she said. "But yes. I encourage Connor to interact with people -- he likes making new friends. I think he actually has a playdate scheduled right now."

_A playdate. For a fucking Terminator,_ Kyle thought, and then realized who the only other kid at the School was.

_Oh fuck. It's Ari._

"I'll come with," he said suddenly.

She raised her eyebrows. "OK then. Right this way."

* * *

They played, of all things, Go Fish.

Just when Kyle thought his life couldn't get any more surreal.

The card game was the most normal, childish thing about them, though. And Connor managed not to be the weirdest.

Sure, it was freaky as hell watching a robot play cards with a five-year-old -- especially given that some part of Kyle's subconscious mind kept expecting said robot to be pissed-off and have a severely over-the-top accent.

It was freakier when the robot seemed like the _normal_ one.

Ari had grown since the last time Kyle had seen him -- he now stood maybe four foot six, though Kyle couldn't judge it accurately with him sitting down. He looked fairly happy, but... how happy could a kid like him _be_?

"Poor kiddo's on enough pain meds to knock out the entire Russian Army," Reilly had told Kyle once. "The therapy -- hurt him. He hated needles anyway, so it was really tough on him. And now it's just like a growth spurt that doesn't stop. He seems to be holding up OK, but... I don't know."

Kyle glanced from Ari back to the robot. Hard as it was to believe -- Connor seemed the more childish of the two. Ari was nearly silent, muttering "go fish" or asking for cards in a small, almost unintelligible voice -- Connor spoke in an oddly modulated near-monotone, but there was _something_ about him that seemed more... like a kid.

Maybe it just ran in the family, in Ari's case. Jeb was a quiet type, too, and Reilly said he remembered him hardly speaking at all back when Reilly had first arrived. Max was almost the same -- according to the little data available, she'd preferred to watch before acting. (But the trend in the last few weeks before she vanished from the records seemed to indicate a spontaneous tendency: acting before thinking. Not like her father at all.)

But where Jeb's silence, Max's silence, were just shyness or reserve -- Ari's seemed spooky. Like he was watching you personally, judging you, determining whether you measured up to some internal standard of his.

Unsettlingly, Kyle got the impression no one measured up.

_He's five,_ he reminded himself. _He's just curious. He doesn't know me._

But Kyle had met Ari before. Ari knew damn well who Kyle was.

So maybe he was just comparing everyone to Jeb. Looking for a father -- hell, just a parent, someone to look up to. Ari had had a father for a while, but Kyle doubted he even remembered the way Jeb had been _there_ for him; though Jeb had been constantly busy, the way Reilly told it he had genuinely tried to be a part of Ari's life.

It hadn't worked out. Ari was quiet and withdrawn, like his father -- but he didn't trust anyone, not the way even Jeb did, always looking for someone to follow. Which only made sense, really -- he'd never had a chance to meet a normal child his own age. Ari had only ever met adults and experiments -- and most of those adults had been conducting tests on him.

Sure, Ari was only five. But he'd been forced into a weird kind of early maturity by the way Jeb had vanished so suddenly. He was heading into a crucial period of his life with no real guidance from an adult, no real comfort. And he was probably scared, really scared, of all the tests that had been done on him. No one would have bothered to even explain them.

Kyle bit down hard on his tongue. Well. He couldn't change a lot of that -- not what had already happened.

Connor paused for a moment, then laid three cards on the table: seven of hearts, seven of clubs, seven of spades.

Ari watched him silently. The robot was far too graceful, and maybe that was why Ari's gaze was so intent.

More probably, Kyle realized, he'd never played a game of Go Fish with another kid.

He wanted to see how normal kids played card games, so he could change his own behavior in the future to match that. Ari wanted to be normal.

So OK, Kyle realized.

Ari's future wasn't predetermined by his past.

_No fate but what we make,_ Kyle thought, smiling already, and excused himself, turning to leave the room.

He had calls to make -- for one thing, he needed to call a Dr. Batchelder, and arrange an appointment for him to see Ari.


	54. Salvation

Chapter Fifty-Four: Salvation

Changing your worldview is hard.

Having it changed _for_ you, forcibly -- well, that might be even harder.

And oh, did ter Borcht know it.

Just a few weeks ago, he'd been calm in his assurance that in only a few months he would be dead. It had made things almost easier -- other people didn't know when or how they'd die.

Ter Borcht knew almost to the day.

There was an off chance that he'd live a few days after the birth, but even allowing that, all his calculations came out to the same result: his death. He hadn't told Marian, or anyone else working on the project, because he knew that either they'd figured it out for themselves or that it would just worry them to know.

And he'd come to terms with the fact that he would die -- accepted he wouldn't live to see the finish of this project (which he knew wasn't uncommon; how many others had been outlived by their projects over the years? how many had died to further their own research?). The only part of that that really hurt was knowing he wouldn't live to raise this child -- though ter Borcht had never thought of himself as a father, he couldn't stand to leave his child's upbringing to strangers.

Oh yes. He'd come to terms with all that. Though thinking of the child as _his_ was a recent development.

But once the child had begun to feel real to him, once he'd started feeling it _move_, he'd started having his doubts. Had started to grow colder to the idea of death.

And now -- hell, especially _now_, lying in bed next to Jeb, hearing him breathe -- he found himself less than amiable to the thought of not being here in a year. Knowing he was going to die in six months no longer seemed like a comforting certainty; it seemed like a threat to the awkward happiness he had with Jeb. Like a fate he had to avoid.

Because he knew that Jeb would try to raise this child as best he could, no matter what -- but ter Borcht still wanted to be _there_. He'd been able to think calmly of this child growing up without him once, but now it was impossible -- when he thought of the future now, he saw himself in it. Where once he'd been unable to see himself as a part of the future -- now he saw a space for himself there, one next to Jeb and their daughter. Or son, perhaps, though he thought, for some reason, that this child -- his child -- was going to be a girl. Call it motherly intuition, maybe.

_Fatherly_, he corrected. Or was it motherly? Some of the fragmented people he saw in the mirror -- fragments of his own_ body_ -- looked more female than male. Which left him where, exactly? He still _felt_ like himself, and looks weren't everything, after all -- but they were very persuasive, especially to his subconscious mind, the part that made fragments of him in the first place.

He wasn't sure quite why, but God, he was tired.

Ter Borcht sighed and closed his eyes, knowing already he wouldn't get back to sleep.

* * *

Jeb did _not_ want to get up.

For one thing, he had an appointment, which made him inimical to the idea of getting out of bed -- for another, the appointment was with Kyle, which meant it might not even be worth it compared to just staying in bed.

For the other thing, Roland seemed to be shivering. Or shaking, at least. Which was reason enough to stay in bed -- whichever it was, staying in bed with him would both warm him up and probably make him feel more reassured.

Then again, Kyle had asked specifically that Jeb bring Roland along. God knew why.

Jeb checked his watch and sighed. Yeah. He needed to get out of bed if he wanted to be on time.

He'd kind of missed having deadlines to meet.

Well. Not really. They stressed him out. But he liked how they gave him concrete goals -- something definite to try for.

He nudged Roland with his elbow. "Hey. C'mon. Wake up."

Jeb didn't even get a response -- unless you counted the way Roland suddenly froze.

"C'mon," Jeb said softly, brushing his hand along the skin of Roland's shoulder, trying to pretend he didn't know Roland was already awake.

"Mmm?"

"Get up." Jeb poked him once, playfully. "Gotta get going."

"'Kay." You had to admit: he wasn't bad at pretending to have just woken up.

Roland sat up and rubbed his eyes sleepily. (Jeb really couldn't help but envy the way his hair was only a little ruffled -- damn, but Roland was lucky.)

"You seen my glasses anywhere?" Jeb asked.

"They're probably on, y'know, _your_ side of the bed," Roland said, running a hand through his hair, and Jeb abandoned any thought of interrogating him over whatever was eating his guts (OK, maybe that was bad phrasing) -- whatever was bothering him could wait. He got a free pass. If only because he somehow managed to look good this early in the morning.

Jeb made a note to someday ask just _how_ he pulled that off.

* * *

Reilly waited with Kyle for Jeb to show up that morning -- strictly as moral support, he claimed at first, but Kyle eventually did pry the truth out of him.

"I gotta talk to Jeb about something," he said, squinting into the sun.

"What else?" Kyle asked, knowing that with Reilly there was _always_ a what-else, another reason, an ulterior motive. The _hell_ he only wanted to talk to Jeb. There had to be something else to it. There always was.

"I think Dr. ter Borcht hates me," Reilly said, right out of left field.

Kyle blinked. He hadn't been expecting any answer, much less one as _what-the-fuck-Reilly_ as that one. "What," he said. It wasn't a question. It didn't need to be. It was a statement of fact -- or, more precisely, it was an uninflected question of Reilly's sanity.

"He's, like... I think he's avoiding me," Reilly continued. "And, like, he's taking this _way_ too well. Like, if I were him I'd be totally freaking out, y'know?"

_Maybe he already got over the whole freakout_ _part_, Kyle thought. _Some people are actually pretty mellow, Reilly my man -- not total speed freaks with emotional issues like you. And sometimes me._

He looked closely at his friend, who seemed happy. Suspiciously so. In a way that Kyle only vaguely remembered from high school.

He decided not to ask.

"Hey," Reilly drawled, "there he is. Well -- guess that means I gotta jet then." He blew Kyle a hasty kiss and beat feet.

_Something,_ thought Kyle, _is rotten in __Denmark__._

He had no time to add anything more witty to that, because he turned around and there was Jeb, accompanied by a slightly rattled-looking ter Borcht.

Kyle absently rubbed at his forehead, then stepped forward to meet them. It was a lovely morning, really.

He just had work to do.


	55. What We Make

Chapter Fifty-Five: What We Make

Just as usual, Kyle got off on completely the wrong foot.

"Jeb, how would you like to go see Ari?" he blurted.

Anger flashed across Jeb's face, and Kyle knew it had been the wrong thing to say.

_No fate but what we make._

(It was the closest Kyle got to prayer.)

_No fate but what we make._

(He was pretty sure it made him a total nerd.)

It calmed him down, though.

_No fate but what we _-- _oh, hell_, he thought.

_What have I done_?

Jeb's expression had frozen, and he looked like he was about ready to kill someone.

Kyle just hoped it wouldn't be him.

But Jeb's voice was steady and clear, betraying not even a hint of murderous...ness. Whatever.

"Prescott implied it would be dangerous for me to see him."

If he'd been Reilly, Kyle would have held his tongue. But he wasn't, so he plunged onwards. "Prescott is, pardon my French, a dipshit."

Jeb smiled. "Tell me something I _don't_ know."

Kyle wished he had a hat to twist between his hands. "I checked some stuff out yesterday, and there's this... other project..." Did Jeb know about the... Terminator-thingies? Probably not, Kyle decided. "Anyway, I set things up so you could come see Ari."

"What's the catch?" Jeb said coolly.

If nothing else, Jeb was a smart man. Although sometimes he was _too_ smart. "There is no catch. What could I possibly get out of this?"

"I have no idea," Jeb said. "But I know you're probably looking to get _something_ out of this." There was a keen, searching sort of look in his eyes, as if he were trying to figure out what Kyle was really after.

_For fuck's sake. _Kyle understood why Reilly sometimes said it was tough to talk to Jeb. He could be nice and all, but... he was pretty damn paranoid. "There's no catch. I swear to God."

Whatever Jeb had been before, he was _angry _now. "If there's one thing I'm tired of," he hissed, "it's people _using_ my son to try and manipulate _me_. So --"

"_Jeb_." Ter Borcht grabbed Jeb by the shoulder, holding him back. Kyle made a vow to thank him -- or at least to someday pay him back for preventing a violent confrontation.

Ter Borcht lowered his voice and spoke rapidly into Jeb's ear. "What could _possibly_ make you think that Kyle has any motive other than doing something kind for you?"

Jeb whirled on his feet and all but _snarled_ at ter Borcht. "For all I know he's working for _Prescott_."

Kyle took a step backwards, the hell _away_ from them. _Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit..._

"If you paid any _attention_ to the people around you," ter Borcht snapped, "you'd _know_ that Kyle hates him just as much as _you_ do!"

_Shit._ If ter Borcht was getting angry, too, Kyle's best option was probably to run like hell. Given that they seemed to have forgotten he was there, they might not even notice he was gone.

"Yeah?" Jeb's eyes narrowed. "Well, if you haven't noticed, I've been trying to get my _son_ back, so if you don't mind --"

(There was a critical difference between Reilly and Kyle. Reilly knew from experience that there was little more dangerous at the School -- well, little that wasn't in a cage or safely in a test tube -- than an angry mad scientist. Two of them was even worse.

(Kyle, not being Reilly, did not know this.)

"God_dammit_, Jeb," ter Borcht said. "Can't you see that's what Kyle's trying to help you do? Or are you too blinded by paranoia?"

_People actually talk that way?_ Kyle wondered dizzily, and backed up another step. Jeb's hands had clenched into tight fists, and if there was going to be some kind of violence Kyle did _not_ want to be anywhere in the area. Especially if it was going to be between the two of _them_.

Angry mad scientists were bad enough. _Fighting_ mad scientists -- especially if it got physical -- were _way_ worse. Even Kyle knew that.

"I'm not paranoid," Jeb growled. "Just _realistic._"

"Oh, is that what you call it?" ter Borcht spat. "Well, forgive me, but it sounds like paranoia."

"I thought I could _trust_ Prescott," Jeb said, his voice deceptively soft. "I trusted him with my _son_ -- and he went behind my back, made Ari into a _monster_."

"He's not a monster, Jeb. He might have changed, but he's still your son."

Kyle grinned nervously to himself. _Go, ter Borcht_!

"How would you know? Have you _seen_ him? Do you know what he's become?" Jeb's voice had gone dangerously steady and quiet.

"Do you?" ter Borcht asked. "You haven't talked to him in years, Jeb. How can you know what he's like now if you haven't seen him for that long?"

Jeb's eyes had gone almost entirely dead of emotion, and Kyle had a feeling he was on the verge of storming out of the situation entirely. "I can't trust anyone, Roland."

"Not even me?"

___Aw, shit_. Kyle took another step backward, putting him within arm's reach of the door into Animal Testing.

Jeb said nothing.

Kyle opened the door with one hand, promising himself that the second this got violent he was running for Reilly. And possibly Security.

"Jeb," ter Borcht said softly, "whatever Ari might be now, he's still your son. And you owe this to him -- letting him know you still care."

"I've always cared."

"Then why did you _leave_ him for two years?" ter Borcht demanded.

"Because I had to," Jeb hissed.

Kyle always held that he never saw who threw the first punch, but this was a lie. It was ter Borcht.

He did have a motive for saying he didn't know, though -- the second he saw one of them hit the other one in anger, he knew there was trouble. So he ran to call Security.

He didn't have to call, as it turned out -- Security had a substation in Animal Testing (which only made sense, really), so all that fell to him was to tell them that Doctor Batchelder had started a fistfight. Yes, again. Yes, really.

Kyle leaned against the wall. It was eerily silent, and he saw with a detached kind of curiosity that his hands were shaking. Huh. Weird.

He couldn't shake the feeling that something very, very bad had just happened, though he couldn't pinpoint exactly what.

_There's no fate but what we make,_ he thought, _but sometimes the fate we make isn't so great._ _You can change the future -- but should you?_


	56. TimeTraveler

Chapter Fifty-Six: Time-Traveler

In retrospect he'd see logic here.

He knew he would. Looking back at this, he'd see why it had happened -- everything would be clear with a lens of time to focus it. And it wouldn't be so achingly immediate -- he'd have had the grace of years to dull the pain. It would all seem to have happened to someone else. Some other man.

Right now there was no logic. None of it made sense. He couldn't justify his own actions. But ter Borcht had faith: if he waited a while longer, stuck it out until the end, all the pieces would fall into place. If he just had the patience to wait this out, he'd see the pattern behind this madness. The chaos would sort itself into order, if he only gave it time.

He didn't _have_ time, though.

The most distance he could count on gaining from this moment was a few more months. After that... nothing. No chance of clarity, no chance to make things right. Time was running out, and he knew it.

Even the passage of a few hours had begun to at once dull and clarify his motivations, his thoughts, any reasoning he might have had. It was almost a blessing, in a way. There was a part of him that didn't want to think about the argument, that wanted to believe it hadn't happened -- and yet, there was a part of him that wanted to know exactly why it had happened. He _needed_ to know.

That night was the hardest -- sleepless, lying awake and alone, wondering what could have caused them to react so badly together. If he had done something wrong personally, by some chance. If this meant that something was wrong with the two of them as a pair -- or if it meant that the something wrong was with him specifically, or with Jeb.

_You may experience some violent impulses_, he had been told the day he was diagnosed. A warning, an assessment of what was possible, not an absolute prediction.

Violent impulses. Not _You may find yourself acting violently_. The idea of acting out could stem from his disorder, but not the action itself. The action itself had been his.

He'd been feeling so much better lately -- much more balanced, much more whole. Could that really be at an end now? He didn't believe it.

But he was going to make it through. Ter Borcht wasn't a kid anymore -- he knew that as bad as he felt, it would all pass eventually.

The trouble was, he didn't believe it had even happened. He didn't believe that he could have... lashed out at Jeb like he had. Because ter Borcht was not a violent man. He never had been.

It took him a week to finally get a clue -- to remember all that Ari had been to Jeb. To remember how much of a shattered mess Jeb had been, after finding out that Ari had been experimented on without his father's consent.

No wonder he'd snapped when ter Borcht had mentioned Ari. If there was something about Jeb's personality, his coping methods, that ter Borcht had learned, it was that he was almost incapable of dealing with change, if he wasn't given time to get used to the idea. To keep himself from breaking entirely, he'd made this -- _idea_ for himself that his son was already dead. Because it hurt less than knowing that though Ari was still alive, Jeb couldn't even go visit him.

Yet... Jeb had _tried_ to see Ari. He must have asked at least once, for Prescott to have told him that he couldn't. It must have hurt him, to be reminded that his son wasn't dead. No wonder he'd gotten so angry at Kyle.

It was another full week before ter Borcht realized that maybe Jeb wanted him back.

They'd both been cold to each other after the fight, ter Borcht careful not to say anything that might set Jeb off, Jeb seemingly careful not to show any feeling towards ter Borcht. Where he'd been kind, warm, loving -- now he was cold, achingly clinical, carefully reserved.

And goddammit, as much as ter Borcht was afraid of lashing out and hurting him -- he still wanted Jeb back. He missed waking up next to him in the mornings, missed kissing him for no reason other than _because_ -- fuck, he missed _Jeb_.

He was afraid, though, that maybe he'd been asking too much of Jeb in the first place -- afraid that maybe Jeb had never wanted forever, that he hadn't really wanted anything more than a passing relationship, something strictly temporary.

But he started seeing, then, how this was different. He'd seen Jeb cold and resistant before, and... this wasn't like then. Jeb wasn't genuinely unfeeling -- only hiding what he _was _feeling. And he still felt _something_ for ter Borcht -- it was obvious in the way he sometimes seemed on the verge of saying something to ter Borcht more personal than "Hello" or "How've you been?"

He just seemed to be afraid to show it.

It was another few days yet before ter Borcht built up the courage to _say_ something, and in the end he only even acted because Jeb was _right there_, within arm's reach as he left the lab.

"I'm sorry," he said, and it _hurt_ to see Jeb turn with a careful, bland look in his eyes.

"Dr. ter Borcht?" He sounded so incurious, so cold.

"Jeb, please," he said. "I'm sorry it took me so long, but -- I'm sorry I started that fight, and that it's taken me until now to apologize."

There was a moment when he thought it was all going to fail, that Jeb was just going to coldly reject him, that the façade was going to turn out to be the reality. That Jeb really wouldn't care at all.

Happily, that moment passed.

Because Jeb smiled, a little stiffly, but it was a _smile_, damn it. "It wasn't your fault," he said quietly. "If one of us should be apologizing it's me."

"What do you have to apologize for?" ter Borcht asked, knowing he was being as direct as always, hoping it would surprise Jeb into giving a straight answer.

Jeb hesitated before speaking, as though he'd thought of one thing to say and then decided against it. "Being unreasonable. I should have just apologized right after... that, not given you the cold shoulder for all this time."

Ter Borcht couldn't help but laugh, and it was almost comforting when Jeb shot him a look whose meaning roughly approximated "oh, shut up".

"What's so funny?" he complained -- and it was like nothing had happened between them at all, because the way he sounded was just the same as always.

"I just -- I never thought I'd hear someone actually use that phrase seriously," ter Borcht said, fighting to keep a straight face (and God, but Jeb was... cute, really, when he was confused -- how had ter Borcht been able to stay away from him for so long?).

"What, 'cold shoulder'?"

"It's just... I don't know, it's ridiculous-sounding, I guess," ter Borcht said thoughtfully.

"It is, I guess." Jeb smiled -- a real, honest smile this time -- and hugged ter Borcht, taking him entirely by surprise. "God, I've missed you," he said, and ter Borcht returned the hug.

"I've missed you too," he said, knowing that that didn't _begin_ to cover it. He took a step back, thinking that they really hadn't been _apart_, not physically -- emotionally, yes, but not physically. At a place like the School it was hard to stay away from another person for very long (and at any rate they'd seen each other every week for ter Borcht's medical checkups).

"You can -- forgive me, right?" Ter Borcht knew the words he was using weren't _quite_ accurate, but he couldn't say _everything_ he wanted to. There weren't enough words in any language he knew.

Or enough time remaining for him to use them.

"I already have," Jeb said. "If you'll forgive me."

He'd been feeling so _lost_ ever since they'd fought -- as if Jeb had been keeping him stable, making him feel like he had someone to rely on. And now... it was looking like he'd been _right_.

"Of course." Ter Borcht felt rather lost even now, though for a different reason -- if he'd known it would be this _easy_... Hell. If he'd known Jeb would be this willing to forgive...

"Good. I've been waiting to do this."

With no further ado, Jeb pulled ter Borcht closer for a kiss.


	57. Reilly, You're A Shooting Star

Chapter Fifty-Seven: Reilly, You're A Shooting Star

"You ever thought about the stars? Like, really _thought_ about them." Kyle exhaled, sending a plume of smoke into the still night air.

"I can't really say I have," Reilly answered, fanning himself with one hand. Christ, it was hot out -- going by the calendar it was almost fall, but it still felt like high summer, even at night. Maybe it was some weird weather system moving in -- normally the School at least had the decency to be cold at night. "Thought like how?"

"Like... why they're here at all? Why they're not just gone already." Kyle blew a loose chunk of hair out of his face -- he _had_ had it all up in a ponytail, but that had been a while ago.

"Dunno. Can't say I really have." Reilly slumped down on the bench and looked up at the stars. The School didn't put out too much light pollution, and Darwin was a podunk little place... all together, they made so little change to the natural look of the night sky that people working at the School had a fantastic view of the universe's wonders. So to speak.

"You know what we forgot to do this year?" Reilly continued. "The Perseids." They had a standing tradition of getting in at least one night devoted to lying around like stoners watching the meteor shower, and this year they'd missed it, for the first time since they were twelve.

"Guess we did," Kyle said, and in the half-light, Reilly saw him frown for a moment before he smiled. "I smuggled Ari out to see 'em, though."

Reilly choked on thin air. "You _what_?" No wonder he'd missed seeing them with Reilly... although, OK, Reilly _had_ worked late the night they usually went to watch the meteors, but it hadn't been on _purpose_ or anything. "How?"

Kyle yawned. "I still have Batchelder's ID. With that it's just a matter of being able to scan it. I taught Ari how to jimmy locks so he can get into the practice yard, though. 'Cause c'mon," he added when he saw the disapproving look Reilly was shooting his way, "a kid his age shouldn't be cooped up like he's fucking infectious or whatever, and to hell with whatever Prescott thinks."

"Dr. Prescott's gotten more optimistic about Ari," Reilly said carefully. "He says Ari's doing quite well."

"I'm teaching him how to skateboard." Kyle snorted. "Yeah, on account of I keep sneaking him out of that crime of a room Prescott's keeping him in. (Thank God he never got Ari moved to regular Eraser quarters. I'd need an armed guard to get in.)"

Reilly only had to say a few words. "You're shitting me. You've been _sneaking him out_?" _Jesus Christ and all his little fishes._ And just when Reilly had started thinking his best friend was finally growing up.

"Yeah." Kyle shrugged. "Nothin' big, really, just trying to keep his spirits up. Get him out of that one room."

No wonder Ari had been doing so much better lately. Reilly thought staying in just that room had to be bad for the kid's psyche, but he'd been keeping quiet about it. "Please say you stay inside the compound."

"Mostly," Kyle said, grinning mischievously just like he'd used to do. "I just bring him into the main building and let him fuck around for a while, but like _once_ we went to Burger King in town. His idea, not mine," he added hastily as Reilly leveled the best death glare he could muster at him.

"_How_ are you not getting caught?" Reilly asked, maintaining the death glare just long enough to make Kyle nervous before glancing away.

"I'm really careful, and I swore him to secrecy. I've also been fuckin' with the cameras a little bit, and I gave the security guys some money not to say anything." Kyle grinned. "As to town -- relax, man. Put jeans and a t-shirt on the kid and he looks like anyone else."

_Well, duh._ "Just... don't get caught." Reilly sighed. "It's nice that you're trying to do something for Ari, but... _Jesus H. Christ, _man, are you _insane_?"

"No, and that's how I'm getting away with it." Kyle laughed. "It's just, like, the right thing to do. And he likes the company. I'm his cool uncle. I just wish there was another kid his age here, or that Prescott would let him go to school or something. But..." Kyle took a drag off his cigarette, apparently satisfied that his thoughts had been communicated.

"Prescott thinks his immune system is still delicate," Reilly said, and was struck by something for the first time: if Ari hadn't been here, getting gene therapy, he'd be starting kindergarten right now.

"Yeah? Those bubble kids go to school all the time. They're allowed to have friends their own age." Kyle folded his arms across his chest for a moment.

" 'Those bubble kids' aren't part _wolf_, I guess is Prescott's logic." Reilly shifted uncomfortably on the bench.

"If Prescott had just done what Jeb _asked_ him to do, Ari wouldn't _be_ part _wolf._"

"The way Prescott puts it, there was some kind of... misunderstanding," Reilly said, with the uneasy, slimy feeling that he was covering for his boss when he didn't want to be at all. He hated the man. "Like, Jeb had actually given permission before he left, but he... forgot that he had." He scrubbed his hands on his jeans -- he felt _dirty_ now. Ick, ick, _ick._

"Bull_shit_. Prescott forged the waiver."

"Maybe he did. I'm not saying he didn't. Just... the way _Jeb_ told it, he was, like, dead to the world right before he left, when he would've signed the waiver. He _could've_ forgotten."

"Yeah, sure," Kyle said. "He would've _remembered_ signing a waiver to let Prescott experiment on his _son_." Kyle shook his head. "Prescott waited until Jeb was gone, then forged the waiver and started experimenting on Ari."

"Well, Prescott told _me_ Jeb signed it." Reilly didn't like where this was going. "And are you saying, like, Prescott did it to get _revenge_ on Jeb for something?"

"I never said that." Kyle dropped his cigarette in the dust and ground it out with his shoe. "I'm just sayin' that Jeb didn't sign that waiver at any point."

"Yeah, fuck _you_ very much," Reilly said, unsure if he were actually pissed off or just a little amused. "I was just tryin' to explain how Prescott thinks of things. But now I'm leaving, man. I have places to be in the morning."

"Cool. See you." Kyle didn't seem angry at all.

Reilly's plan was to just get up and casually walk away, like that hadn't just happened at all. Instead he found himself still on the bench when he meant to leave. "What, no goodnight kiss?" he found himself saying.

_Fuck. Fuck. Reilly, you sap. Kyle hates that stupid shit. And you knew that._

_So why's he smiling_? retorted the part of Reilly that had never really gotten that "people" thing down.

Kyle's silence almost made Reilly get up and slink off anyway -- but then Kyle sighed, leaned over, and kissed Reilly once on the cheek, a dry, chaste little peck. "There. You happy?"

"No," Reilly said, suppressing the urge to kick himself in the shins. He settled for returning the kiss.

"Been a while, hasn't it?" Kyle murmured, showing the soft side of his personality.

"Too long." Reilly kissed him again, this time on the lips.

It _had_ been a while -- they'd had time together, yeah, but God, Reilly was always busy, and when he wasn't, Kyle was. So they'd met up sometimes, but it was never for long enough -- stolen kisses late at night, maybe a brief hug, and the occasional hasty quickie in Reilly's room, as silent as they could be for safety's sake.

Now, they had... well, not all the time in the world, but more time than they'd gotten used to. Reilly closed his eyes and concentrated on Kyle, determined to cling to this moment for as long as he could.

---

After Reilly'd finally left, Kyle sank back onto the bench, watching him as he opened the door and went inside, silhouetted for a moment by the light coming from inside. He seemed gawky and incomplete without the lab coat Kyle had grown so accustomed to seeing him in.

Still watching as the door shut behind him, Kyle decided that he needed to get Reilly out of the lab coat more often. The damn thing just didn't suit him, and besides, it was just one more piece of clothing to get in the way if Kyle could convince him to get his clothes off.

Kyle rubbed his eyes and looked up at the stars again. They were always bright and clear way out here in the boonies, the Milky Way splayed across the sky in perfect focus, all the constellations as clear as if they were sketches in astronomy textbooks.

He'd taken up stargazing for a while, when he'd first come here and still felt like he had the time, before he'd got swept up in the all-consuming work ethic of the School. He could still spot a few constellations here and there -- Orion, the Big Dipper, Cassiopeia, hell, even what he thought might be Leo if he focused.

The moon was still small, a little crescent crouching shyly in a corner, as if afraid to shed its reflected light, and the stars stood out starkly against the sky. God, it was so vivid. And it was a good reminder that all Kyle's problems were, comparatively, pretty small.

The stars had been there a long time before he was born, and they'd be there a long time after he was dead. They'd emitted their light before there were even humans to see stars, and their light would keep coming after there were no longer people to walk in it. If he could just keep that in mind, everything would seem a lot easier.

Kyle sighed and briefly considered lighting another cigarette before deciding against it. Nah. The air seemed to be cooling off, and besides, he needed to get some sleep tonight before the sun came up.

The stars would still be there when he woke up, after all.

He laughed and murmured to himself as he walked towards the door, alone but for the sound of his footsteps on the ground:

"...overhead, without any fuss, the stars were going out..."

He opened the door and went inside.


	58. Electric

Chapter Fifty-Eight: Electric

_Sinclair's discovery of the electroreanimatory process is well-known to have occurred in the summer of 1785, precipitated by a particularly violent thunderstorm in the small village where he resided at the time. _

_However, it is only in the last two decades that the idea has been put forth by prominent scholars that this breakthrough, his greatest, took place during a prolonged manic episode caused by untreated paranoid bipolar disorder._

_In Sinclair's time, PBD was known as a "creative malady", thought to be similar in nature, cause, and outcome to the mood swings of a Romantic artist..._

Ter Borcht looked up sharply from his book, sure he'd heard a noise out in the hall. Like a footstep, or someone clearing his throat.

He listened for a minute, but heard nothing further. After a quick glance around him, he went back to his reading.

_...and known familiarly to be exclusively the province of men of science._

_During his life and until the 1950s, Sinclair was popularly hailed as a visionary genius, to the point where characters based on his image have appeared in many works of fiction, such as the popular TV series The X-Files. Usually, such characters display the characteristics of the popular caricaturized image of Sinclair: a kindly genius of the eighteenth century, often compared to a British Benjamin Franklin._

_Recently, though, new documents have been released by Sinclair's living relatives which cast this view of him in a new light. According to new analyses of Sinclair's writings, some theorize that Sinclair may have suffered from paranoid bipolar disorder..._

This time he definitely heard something -- a faint tapping at the door. Ter Borcht tried to focus on his reading -- he'd been trying to get to this book for months -- but he kept hearing that intermittent tapping at the door, or a muffled cough in the hall.

At last, he just sighed, got up from the couch, and went to have a look in the hall. Couldn't hurt anything, could it?

Except there was nothing there. Just clean white floor, clean white walls, harsh fluorescent lighting -- and, far down the hall, the red LED of a security camera.

Other than that... well, he'd been expecting someone to be _out_ there. One of the researchers, maybe, walking the halls late at night.

_That's ridiculous,_ he told himself. _It's half-past __midnight__. You're the only person here, and you're imagining things._

That was only half-true, though, and Roland knew it. No matter what time it was, there was always a minimum level of activity at the School.

Someone very well _could_ have been in the hallway just now.

He closed the door. No use worrying about it -- if anyone did walk in he'd claim to have been reading and lost track of time.

Rather than immediately go back and sit down, he walked over to the window. Just for a quick peek outside, mind. Clear his head.

It was a nice night out, really -- the stars bright and clear, the Animal Testing building outlined in shadow against the glitter of the Milky Way. The moon seemed to peer keenly down at him (though it was half-blinded by a group of clouds), spilling faint whitish-silver light on the bare ground.

Beautiful scene.

He'd have gone back to the couch -- lately he'd been finding it hard to keep on his feet for too long, and the way his ankles hurt most of the time didn't help that a bit -- but he was captivated by the way a bank of clouds swept over the moon, obscuring it entirely, reducing it to a dull grey circle and cutting off its light as suddenly as the flick of a switch.

It was like someone was deliberately setting the stage -- dimming the lights before some sort of play.

Ter Borcht couldn't look away -- as soon as the moonlight had gone, he saw flickers of _movement_ in the shadows by the Animal Testing building. Something was out there -- something metallic, from the way it reflected the faint starlight.

Whatever it was, it was _fast_; he could see that much. Some kind of robot, maybe, but he couldn't quite tell, it was so dark out there.

It was eerie, that was the word for it. Eerie, seeing the fast, synchronized glitter of metal out there in the dark. Something about it was just... too much.

He stepped away from the window, suddenly wanting to see no more -- whatever it was, it was none of his business anyway.

He'd hardly sat back down on the couch before he fell asleep.

* * *

Sinclair's hard at work again tonight, but it's not as though he's any more productive than usual. He may be mad, but that doesn't make him any better than he is when he's sane. Only a little more cruel.

Today -- tonight -- he's standing at the window of the parlor, looking broodingly out into the low, grey sky, with his hands clasped at the small of his back.

"John," he says to you without turning, "make it rain." There's a hint of humor in his voice. Good.

"In case you hadn't noticed, doctor, it _is_ raining," you tell him, running one hand absently along one of his bookshelves. It's a pity he never married -- if he had a wife she'd keep this place a fair piece better than _you_ do, that's for certain. It'd be less dusty, for one.

But you and the doctor get along all right by yourselves, and a woman might not take to this place, anyway.

"I _know_ that," he says, rapping the window-glass with the knuckles of one hand. "I mean a storm, a real one. Thunder, lightning. Like a storm is supposed to be." He drops his hand back to his side, and for a moment his shirtsleeve pulls up, showing the end of that long scar that's just now healing up. It was poorly stitched, and it'll scar badly, but it'll heal, and he'll live.

A woman, besides, would interfere here -- you and the doctor are close to each other, close enough that even when he's mad and won't sit still, he'll let you stitch his wounds shut. What you have isn't perfect, but it works. That's all the doctor cares about, when it comes to people, and therefore all that you care about.

"Why would you want that, doctor? Weather like this is so much more calming, I think. Gives the mind some time to rest," you say, trying to reassure him, to calm him. He's been nervous this whole past week.

"I don't _want_ to rest, John," he says bitterly, clenching his hand into a fist. "I'd _like_ to, but I _can't_ -- oh, you know how it is!" There's a sharp edge to his voice, a brittleness of tone. Yes, you know how it is -- there's not much between him now and a killing rage, or a nervous collapse, or a bout of melancholy. This is Sinclair at his most mercurial, his most vulnerable -- and yes, you know him well.

"Well, we still may have your lightning," you say gently, coming up to stand beside him at the window. "It's early yet."

The house is surrounded by a dense, queerly _alive­_-seeming fog -- and Sinclair's staring right into its heart. For some reason you don't like that, and you lay a hand on his shoulder. "How about I make us some tea, doctor?"

"Thank you, John," he says, and finally turns away to follow you. "How did I ever get along without you?" he wonders, and you smile politely.

After tea he seems more focused, and though he insists on waiting for the storm to peak in his laboratory, though he paces up and down its length as the day dips toward its end, he doesn't have that volatile, nervous bearing about him. He prowls among his equipment like a wildcat, but he has none of the raging, tense quality to him that he usually has when he's like this.

It's as if he knows the future -- as if he _knows_ there'll be a storm, a real one, and soon. Tonight.

"Can you feel it?" he asks you, and you nod. You're falling asleep in your chair, but you can feel some sort of galvanic force coursing through the air. Yes, tonight there'll be lightning.

He shakes you awake some time later, and there's a terrible rush of activity, getting things into place, fine-tuning equipment, and running through it all that sense of galvanic energy, like a fine wine in your blood, wordless and powerful. Outside there's thunder and lightning, but in here there's only the dry noise of gears turning against each other.

"Do you feel it?" he asks you. "Do you feel it?"

Lightning flares outside the window.

* * *

Ter Borcht awoke to bright, blurry light, and wondered where his glasses had gone. He must have taken them off at some point in the night. His book was still where he'd left it, at least.

He shook his head, trying to clear the worst of the early-morning mist away. Normally he didn't remember his dreams -- but this one had an odd unfinished quality that made it stick in his memory. And something about it seemed so _familiar_...

He sighed. Just... _something_ about it. The atmosphere, maybe. And it had seemed so _real_ -- less like a dream than a fragment from someone else's life.

_Maybe I'm going crazy,_ he thought humorlessly.

_Or maybe I'm just going sane._


	59. If There's Any Trouble

Chapter Fifty-Nine: If There's Any Trouble

Reilly opened the door to the lounge, knowing Roland would probably be there -- he'd become a kind of fixture here. No matter what time of night it was, you could probably count on him being in the lounge, either playing a game of solitaire or sitting on the couch with his feet up and his nose in a book.

This particular morning, he was playing solitaire.

"Morning, Dr. ter Borcht," Reilly said, gratified that his subconscious, at least, was enough on the ball not to call ter Borcht by his first name. That, he felt, would just be a bit much.

"Morning." Roland smiled tiredly, glancing up at Reilly for a moment before brushing one hand through his hair and returning his attention to the cards.

"How've you been?" Reilly asked to fill the silence, stirring his coffee with an absent hand.

"Fine." He didn't look up this time. "You?"

_You don't look "fine"_. "Not bad." Reilly took a sip of his coffee, and looked out the window. There was no one else around, which was only sensible given the hour -- still bright and early. Sane people were still in bed. "You hear that storm last night?"

"Yeah." He shrugged. "Couldn't sleep. So I came out here to watch."

_Which would explain why you're here this early. _Not like Reilly was a creeper, but he'd gotten a vague sense of when to expect to be surprised by a mad scientist appearing out of nowhere -- Jeb and Roland were usually a bit later getting up in the morning.

"Mmm." He nodded and looked back down at the cards.

_Well, there goes that conversation._

Reilly looked out the window. Clear blue sky, no hint of last night's clouds. Beautiful day, probably going to be hot as hell, though. It'd be just his luck.

But where he could see the ground, there were faint hints of desert wildflowers popping up -- tiny splotches of yellow, purple, faded pink, and white against the sand and dirt. Reilly didn't really dig flowers so much, but seeing them come up after a rainstorm -- yeah, that was pretty cool.

He sipped his coffee, thinking. Prescott probably wouldn't want too much of him today -- he'd been working Reilly to the bone the past few days, and whatever project he was on about now had to be almost complete. Reilly might actually have time to wander around in the desert looking at flowers.

Free time. What a concept.

Desert flowers were such beautiful little things, he mused, keeping his eyes on the sand. They'd be interesting to study, too. What made them so hardy? It had to be something.

Someone knocked on the door, and then it opened. "Roland?"

Ter Borcht looked up from his card game. "Oh, hello."

Predictably, it was Jeb. (Who the hell else would call ter Borcht by his first name? Or remember that he had one?)

"Missed you last night." Jeb sat down next to ter Borcht.

_Hello, I'm still here_, Reilly thought, holding his cup of coffee between his palms and wondering if Prescott would object to his showing up early.

"I was here," ter Borcht said, shuffling the cards back together. "Watching the storm."

"Ah. I must have slept through it."

"You would."

"I did." Jeb paused, and Reilly thought calm thoughts, trying not to edge towards the door _too_ noticeably.

Ter Borcht tapped the cards into one neat pile in front of him. "You're trying to ask me to come do some tests, aren't you?"

"Well, yes."

_I'm out of here,_ Reilly decided. He wasn't putting up with any more of this -- for one thing, it was really weird being the only other person in the room, and for another he hadn't even eaten yet.

"Let's just get it over with." Ter Borcht got to his feet and calmly walked right past Reilly and out the door, followed immediately by Jeb.

Reilly blinked, surprised. _Huh._

He took his coffee and sat down. It was pretty nice to be alone.

* * *

They were in the lab when the phone rang -- Jeb was transferring that day's data into the records, and he shot Roland a glance. "Would you get that?"

"No." He sighed mock-reluctantly, got up, and made his way across the lab to the phone. "You owe me," he said, and then answered the phone.

"Hello, this is Dr. Jeb Batchelder's lab. Can I help you?"

"_Hey_! Russki!" Laughter on the other end. "How've you _been_?"

Ter Borcht smiled despite himself. "Were you _trying_ to reach me, Marian, or were you actually trying to get Jeb?"

"Well, it _is_ his phone. And I haven't talked to you in _months. _How _are_ you?"

"I'm _fine_." He leaned against the counter.

"Oh, come _on_. I'm your _partner_. Details?"

"I've been _sending_ you the reports," he reminded her.

"Yes, but -- that's just data. How are _you_?"

"Read the reports." He drummed his fingers on the countertop. "The most recent one should be headed your way in a few minutes."

"Yes, but... oh, come on, Roland." She sighed -- her enthusiasm seemed to be dimming by the sentence. "This is my experiment, too."

"And I've been ensuring that you get the results."

"Fine, fine, fine. I just worry about you, OK? You. Personally. Not the experiment."

That was Marian for you. Ter Borcht laughed politely. "I understand. You can --"

"And _don't_ tell me to just read the reports," she said, cutting him off. "If I wanted to do that, that's what I'd do -- I wouldn't have even bothered to call. I wanted to talk to _you_."

He sighed. She wasn't going to let him get away with quietly demurring. "How's everyone else?"

"Oh... nothing really spectacular. Damien and Ivan are still looking for potential subjects, and the Chinese team is experimenting with some sort of immune system thing."

"Still?" They'd been working on that when he left Germany. Had they really made no progress since then?"

"Well, they're refining _your_ work, but yes, still. And Dimitri wants to speak to you -- he has some questions he needs to ask. He keeps getting odd results from his experiments, and he wants to cross-check them with you." She paused, thinking. "Actually, everyone wants a word with you. You're sure you can't possibly make it over here for a few days, even?"

"No," ter Borcht said mildly, glancing at Jeb, who smiled at him. "I'd better not."

"Ah. Right. Well, you ought to call Dimitri, at least -- and then Jianming and his team need to talk with you. They've been having some trouble."

"You said that. What kind of trouble?" He shifted the phone to his other ear.

"I didn't quite catch it all, but I got the gist -- they can't get some of it to work out in the lab."

"Well, give him copies of my notes --"

"He _has_--"

"-- and if they still have trouble with whatever it is, tell them to call me back."

"He _has_ copies of your notes," Marian finished. "We all have -- they're part of the experiment, we all share our notes."

Ter Borcht sighed. "Look. Tell Jianming to write down a list of what he needs to know and send it to me. I'll try and give him some help, and then if that doesn't work we can go from there."

She laughed. "All right, I'll talk to him."

"Good. And what's so funny?" he demanded.

"You," she said, teasing. "My Russki, trying to solve a problem instead of making it up as you go."

"I _always_ plan," he objected.

She giggled. "I know you do -- you're just terrible at it."

"I am _not_," he said, rather huffily.

"Whatever you want to tell yourself."

"If that's all, then," he said briskly, "well, if you need to call me, this number is fine, just ask for me by name before you go rattling on about the experiment, or you'll confuse whoever answers the phone."

"You're not in the lab all the time?"

"Well, of course not -- it's Jeb's lab, not mine, and besides, I left all the lab work for you."

"Thanks for that, by the way. I really appreciate it." The connection could be flaky at times, but her sarcasm still came through loud and clear.

"So I've only been focussing on the theoretical stuff for right now -- I guess once this is over I _might_ go back into practical work, but some of this is really interesting."

"My Russki, _not_ a workaholic?" she said, feigning a stunned tone. "I don't believe it. You really have changed."

"You've got me confused with Jeb," he said, deadpan.

"Mmm." She lapsed into silence for a moment, then spoke again, suddenly. "What _are_ you doing, once this is all over?"

Marian, he realized, was still convinced he had an outside chance of living through this.

"Oh... I don't know..." he said uneasily. "I thought I might come back, but I'm not sure. I'd have to talk it over with Jeb, I guess?"

"With Jeb?"

"Yes."

"Why him?" She didn't know, he remembered with a grim little smile.

"Oh," he faltered. "He and I are, uh... we're... together."

"_Really?_ Oh, Roland, that's _wonderful_!" He could practically _see_ her grinning. "And that's... going well? That sounds so awkward. But you know what I mean."

"Yes, Marian." He sighed. "We're fine."

"Good. I mean, I don't mean to pry or anything, but..."

"You just worry," ter Borcht said, finishing her sentence for her.

"Right."

There was a momentary silence, and he was considering just saying a quick goodbye and hanging up, but she went on:

"You _are_ doing OK, right? I've been reading the reports you send back, I know what the data says, so don't you dare lecture me. But you _are_ feeling all right?"

"Yes. I'm _fine_. You've just had me standing around talking to you for about forever and a half, and dammit, Marian, my feet hurt."

(He didn't notice that Jeb, upon hearing him say this, was consumed by a silent fit of the giggles.)

"Oh," Marian said quietly. "I'm sorry. So I'll tell Jianming that, and..."

"Just say hello to everyone for me, and tell them I'm doing fine, OK?" he said.

"Will do."

"Goodbye." He hung up on her, and finally noticed Jeb trying not to laugh. "What are you laughing at?"

With a typical measure of class and eloquence, Jeb giggled quietly for a moment before calming himself down. "What you just said."

"It wasn't _that_ funny."

"It was pretty funny."

"Sure." Ter Borcht sat down. "I feel fine, by the way," he added. "I just hate tying up the phone."

"I never use it. Or hardly ever, anyway. So you're not tying it up."

"That's not really it. I don't like _feeling_ like I'm keeping someone else from making a call."

"That's so you," Jeb muttered.

Ter Borcht paused for a moment to think about it. "It is, isn't it?"

"Very much so."

"I never really thought about it."

"So that was Marian Janssen on the phone?" Jeb asked.

"Yes. You've met?"

"No. I've heard her name before."

"Ah." Ter Borcht nodded. "I've mentioned her to you. We work together."

"I remember that much. And I thought you wanted to get away from her?"

He shrugged. "Well, yes. But she's not that bad to talk to, and we _do_ work together, so we have to talk..."

Jeb smiled. "Yeah, I can see that. I need to go get something to eat. You want to come with me?"

"Sure."

They left.


	60. Significance

Chapter Sixty: Significance

It was the little things, he found, that affected him the most.

Like the fall of sunlight on the desert in the morning -- the way it made every edge sharper, every color cleaner. The warmth of the air outside.

The scenery was beautiful, no doubt about it. He'd gotten into the habit of, if he couldn't take a short walk, at least getting outside for a while every day. There were days when the ache in his lower back and hips (never mind his _ankles_) kept him from doing much more than getting outside to a bench -- but he did manage to get outside and sit for a while whenever he could find the time, (which was often).

Jeb sometimes wondered why Roland spent so much time out there in the shade -- "how can you stand to spend so much time not _doing_ anything?" he asked on one occasion.

The thing was -- he might not be physically _doing_ anything, but it gave him time to think.

Whether this was a good thing or a bad thing -- that was the question.

There had been times when he'd wished for just a few minutes to himself to _think_, he was in such a rush with his work. Yes, yes, his work was all well and good, but... it was good to have time to brainstorm, too. So he'd put aside time to do nothing, hoping he'd find the peace he was seeking.

He never had, really -- he'd found momentary calm, but never this lazy peace.

It was... _nice_. To be able to just sit somewhere, knowing all was right with the world and there was nothing he should be doing instead -- to just have the _time_ to sit and watch clouds swirl faintly on the horizon, or turkey vultures tilt on updrafts.

It brought him to the edge of tears sometimes -- how long could this last? Time was slipping through his fingers, and he wished sometimes, with nervous energy, that he _did_ have something to do other than sit and let his thoughts wander where they would.

Then again -- not all of his days spent in observation were lonely ones. Jeb's workaholic tendencies had softened, and it wasn't difficult at all to tempt him outside -- _just for a minute, come sit with me, won't you_? It was calmly satisfying just for ter Borcht to hold his hand for a while, to point out to him the hawk that kept returning to the Animal Testing building day after day, or the far-off shimmer of the mountains through the heat haze.

Not every moment he shared with Jeb, he found, had to be madly representative of something about their relationship -- they were just moments, some of which he'd remember someday, and some of which he wouldn't. Roland liked to pretend he knew which were which -- Jeb wouldn't remember, or would only remember vaguely, watching turkey vultures circle high overhead for almost an hour, but he _would_ remember feeling his daughter kicking from inside Roland's stomach.

(And he would remember ter Borcht laughing in his face when he stammeringly tried to propose a test for the gender of their child. "I've known for six months," Roland told him. "A daughter. Any other questions?"

(From the way Jeb froze up, he was wondering exactly how to respond -- he settled for, "No, except why didn't you _tell_ me that before now?" and kissing Roland deeply, not granting him the chance to answer.)

Oh yes. It was the little things that struck him the hardest, that left the strongest impressions on him. (The fall of light, the circling pattern of a hawk's soar... yes, these were the things he remembered at the end of every day.)

There were times when he couldn't stand those little things, though -- when it became too apparent how temporary they were. He'd come "home" to Jeb and find himself suddenly blinking back tears, thinking of some small thing he'd seen that day, and having absolutely no reason to cry over it.

Jeb always seemed to understand, though -- and he didn't freak out when ter Borcht, one day, awkwardly embraced him and started sobbing into his shoulder for no good reason. Either he understood, or he was willing to be patient while ter Borcht bewildered him -- he waited until ter Borcht was done crying to ask what all _that_ was about.

"Our daughter. And birds," he said, knowing it sounded awkward at best, deranged at worst.

"Yeah?"

Ter Borcht composed himself. "I was watching those hawks that live on the roof of the Animal Testing building, and I thought... I won't be around to introduce her to birds. You'll have to -- I won't be there for her..."

He trailed off, bitterly aware that he was on the verge of tears again, and over something so absurd... Damn. _Damn._

"I'm sorry," he said. "It's such a silly thing. I'm sorry." He tried to pry himself away from Jeb, who was surely only putting up with him at this point.

Jeb hugged him more tightly for a moment. "Oh, come on, Roland," he said. "You'll be there too." His voice was light, but ter Borcht's heart still felt heavy at the thoughts that he'd made the mistake of stirring up. "You are _not_ going to die."

"How do you know?" It was a foregone conclusion. Could there really be any doubt about it?

"I'm not going to let you die without at least putting up a fight about it. Whatever I can do to save you, I'll do. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"I..." Oh, god_damn_ Jeb -- ter Borcht _knew_ he was going to die, so why did Jeb have to be so charmingly persuasive about convincing him he wasn't? "Thank you."

"Really." He stroked ter Borcht's cheek and grinned at him. "Please just trust me, Roland," he said quietly. "I'm a mad scientist. I'll find a way."

Somehow, that gave him hope.

He smiled, then laughed and breathed, "Jeb... oh, fuck. You are the most _amazing_ man I've ever met."

"Why, thank you," Jeb said playfully. "_How_ many times have you told me that?"

"You are, though."

He blushed for a moment, and ter Borcht prized it -- he loved getting Jeb to blush. He was terribly sweet sometimes. "You flatter me."

"I'm glad to."

"Well, at least you're having fun," Jeb noted.

"Hardly. Does this _look_ fun?"

Jeb looked stricken.

Ter Borcht laughed. "Don't answer that."

Jeb kissed him instead.

Oh yes. It was the little things in life that he was coming to appreciate.


	61. Don't Say Goodbye Just Yet

Chapter Sixty-One: Don't Say Goodbye Just Yet

If nothing else, they had time together.

Jeb was at his desk, passing the time reviewing his notes -- ter Borcht sat awkwardly on the bed, staring at the pages of a cheap paperback he'd borrowed from Reilly, not really processing any of the words. There was a comfortable, content silence, stirred only by the soft white noise of the air conditioning.

"Have you been thinking about any names?" ter Borcht said suddenly, and put his book aside. "For our daughter?"

"What?" Jeb looked up. "Oh. No, not really. Why?" He turned to face Roland.

Ter Borcht shrugged. "Aren't we supposed to... I don't know, talk this sort of thing over?"

"I don't really know." Jeb glanced away for a moment, unwilling to meet his eyes. Connie had decided that their son be named Ari Jesse Batchelder -- and Jeb had been too far gone, too far adrift, to do much more than agree.

"I was thinking maybe Elizabeth, but... I want you to at least have a choice. She's your daughter too."

"Elizabeth. I like that." Roland blushed, and that made Jeb smile.

"It's a family name," he muttered.

"It's still a good name." Jeb got up and sat down next to him.

Ter Borcht sighed and adjusted his position on the bed to accommodate Jeb. "Really?"

"Yeah."

"I just... I don't know. It fits her."

"Mother's intuition?"

Ter Borcht punched him lightly in the shoulder. "Shut _up_," he said, laughing.

"Fatherly, then." Jeb leaned on him.

"I don't know _what_ it is. I just... have a feeling." He shrugged. "I just know. She's Elizabeth." He put his arm around Jeb's shoulders.

"OK, if you say so." Jeb closed his eyes. "Whose last name, yours or mine?" He could feel Roland breathing, the gentle rise and fall of his chest against Jeb's back.

No matter what her last name was -- ter Borcht or Batchelder -- she'd almost certainly have blue eyes, light hair, fair skin. He could see that much -- it was only rational, after all, that since both he and Roland had light eyes, light hair, and pale skin, she would too.

"Not mine," ter Borcht said, after a moment's thought. "School was hard enough for me. She'll take your name," he said firmly.

"Elizabeth Batchelder?" Jeb wrapped his arms around Roland's chest, clinging to him. The name had a ring to it.

"Sounds fine to me." Ter Borcht stroked Jeb's hair.

"Still need a middle name." He closed his eyes, concentrated on Roland's heartbeat, strong and regular.

"We'll get to that -- after all, we can't do much worse than mine."

Jeb opened one eye. "Yeah? What's your middle name?" _How do I not know?_

"Isidore." Jeb could _feel_ him laughing softly.

"That's pretty bad," he murmured.

"We'll do fine, you see?" He sighed, a long exhalation. "Jeb?"

"Yeah?"

"What's wrong?"

Jeb felt himself automatically tense, body language tightening and growing hostile, and he forced himself to relax. _This is Roland. He cares about you. He loves you. Relax, for God's sake._ "I guess it's the project I'm working on."

"What, that -- the Voice?" Jeb knew Roland disliked that name, but Roland used it anyway.

"Yeah. We're getting interesting results, but it's such intense work sometimes... I had to drag Reilly into it, as well as Kyle." He uttered a short, harsh laugh. "You've seen me lately -- you know it's stressful."

"I'll help you forget, if you like." Ter Borcht kissed the back of Jeb's neck. "For a little while, anyway." His voice had slipped to a lower pitch -- almost sultry, seductive. He stroked the skin he'd kissed a moment before, brushing his fingers down Jeb's spine, his touch feather-light. "Will you kiss me?"

"Since you ask so nicely..." Jeb let go, leaned up, and kissed him.

"We should... get together like this more often," ter Borcht said once he'd broken the kiss. "Just you and me."

"We should."

"I miss you." He unbuttoned the top button of Jeb's shirt, leaned down to plant a kiss in the little hollow at the base of his throat, just on the edge of his collarbone. "It gets hard, being alone all day. I think of you." His breath puffed hotly on Jeb's skin, and casually he undid the next button.

"I think of you, too, sometimes." He let his eyes drift shut. "In the lab -- it gets so boring..."

"I know," he murmured, fingers moving steadily down the front of Jeb's shirt, undoing the remaining buttons until the shirt hung open. "Is Reilly there with you?"

"Sometimes -- oh!" Jeb gasped as Roland drew one hand slowly down his bare chest. "Not -- not all the time." A small noise escaped him as Roland undid his belt, one hand steady on Jeb's stomach.

"Must get pretty lonely." He unbuttoned the button of Jeb's trousers, raked the zipper down -- leaned in and kissed him again, this time long, slow, and lingering. "You shouldn't be alone."

_I should be doing something_. "No -- stop," Jeb pleaded. "Let me --"

He paused, waiting patiently. Jeb fumbled clumsily at the hem of his loose t-shirt, and he laughed, then grabbed Jeb's wrists. "No. I'll be fine. This is for you."

There was something in his tone that made Jeb smile a little, despite himself, and he looked up to meet Roland's eyes. "If you say so."

He let go of Jeb's wrists. "If you want me to stop, I'll stop."

"No." He suddenly couldn't remember what, if anything, he'd wanted to say. "I thought... I should..."

"_No_." Something defiant and ineffably charming in his tone. "Don't _worry_."

Jeb licked his lips. Smiled weakly. Knew that if he were standing his knees would have long since gone to jelly under him. "Thank you."

"My pleasure."

It was such an incongruous answer that he found himself almost laughing: so polite, as if they weren't sitting here practically hip to hip, Jeb with Roland mostly behind him on the bed they shared -- as if Roland's hands weren't so warm against his skin.

He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment.

"Need some help here," ter Borcht said quietly, hands stilling just above Jeb's hips, no longer tracing absent patterns there.

He opened his eyes again. "What?"

"Your pants." Ter Borcht hooked his thumbs into Jeb's waistband.

"Oh." With effort (and a little help), he got himself out of his trousers -- then, shyly, he let Roland do most of the work of taking off his boxers, his hands scraping lightly against Jeb's thighs.

This time -- today -- ter Borcht moved slowly, with a delicate, almost graceful precision (Jeb found himself imagining those same hands of his not here and now, not touching him, but manipulating lab equipment, playing over glass and steel) that was as sweet as it was maddening. Roland had something of a flair for that, Jeb found -- as rough as he could be, it seemed he preferred to take it slow, make Jeb moan and writhe and beg him for more.

He was in top form here, leaning so that his shoulders were just behind Jeb's, holding him up as he arched his back and thrust his hips forward into ter Borcht's hand.

"Fuck -- Roland, _please--_" He heard the choked, almost keening quality to his voice in a dizzy, half-conscious way -- God, he was so _close_ --

Soft laughter, shaking against his back, and he climaxed, shuddering uncontrollably, calling Roland's name.

* * *

The next thing he was aware of was ter Borcht carefully licking his hand clean -- after he finished, he shifted his weight so that he could support himself with one hand and put the other around Jeb's shoulders.

Rather than say anything, and sure that his tongue would betray him, he settled for a sigh, and settling back more deeply into Roland's half-embrace.

"You should sleep," ter Borcht said.

_Like I'm not already? "_Interesting distraction," Jeb mumbled, breath still coming faster than normal.

"You looked like you needed it." He brushed the side of Jeb's neck with his lips -- not quite a kiss, but close. "And you kind of asked."

"Kind of?"

"Well, you didn't say it outright," he allowed.

"True." Before he could add something more enlightening, Jeb was out like a light. He wasn't _that_ tired, but... there was something comforting about sharing a bed with Roland, and something reassuring about having time with him at all.


	62. Faith

Chapter Sixty-Two: Faith

Jeb had discovered something a long time ago: if someone was determined to be in a bad mood, that was that and there wasn't much you could do about it.

So when Roland spent an entire grey February day in a restless, irritable funk, Jeb chalked it up to hormones and let him be... well, after getting snapped at a few times for his troubles.

At the very end of the day, Jeb finally ventured to broach the subject, figuring it would be better to know what was bothering Roland than to actually keep his head in non-bitten-off condition.

"You're sure you're all right?" he asked, keeping his tone mild and neutral. They were, as often lately, in Jeb's room -- Roland curled up awkwardly on the bed with a cheap paperback (borrowed from Reilly, most likely) and Jeb slumped back in the chair, ostensibly reading through Reilly's latest notes regarding the Voice experiments he and Jeb were conducting, although as a matter of fact that had only half of his attention. The other half was substantially distracted by Roland.

"I'm fine. What would give you the impression I'm not?" Roland levelled a cool glare at him over the top of his book.

Jeb bit his lip, then decided to go with the truth. Oh, what the hell. "You're pale as death and you haven't said a civil word to me all day. That's not usual for you."

"I'm tired." He sighed and adjusted his glasses with one hand. "This hurts, you know."

"I know that." Though he didn't complain about it, it was fairly plain just from his silence that he was in pain. Jeb glanced down at the binder in his lap. ..._responds as previously recorded to commands given_... he read briefly before looking up at Roland again. God bless Reilly's note-taking skills. "And there've been no... changes with that?"

He rolled his eyes. "No."

"Fine. You're sure you're OK?"

His lips momentarily went thin, then relaxed. "Yes," he replied calmly. "I'm fine."

Jeb trusted him, and so he let Roland get away with that.

Well, until he fainted, that was. (To call it fainting was a bit much, Roland felt -- it hadn't been so dramatic as that suggested. He'd tried to get up, seen black for a moment, and fallen back onto the bed, but at no time had he lost consciousness.)

Jeb begged to differ.

"Goddammit, why didn't you _say _something?" he said. "Come on. We should get to the infirmary."

"I'm fine." Roland crossed his arms. "Sometimes I get a little light-headed, that's all."

Jeb stood his ground. "Something could be seriously wrong. I can't do an examination to check that out here. Not without any kind of tools or equipment or... what's wrong?"

His eyes had half-shut, and his lips were pressed tightly together, as before. "Nothing," he hissed, as if in pain.

Then his expression returned to normal, and he managed a little smile. "I'm fine."

_...Oh shit._

Jeb realized what he might be dealing with here.

True, it was physically impossible, but... fuck it, this was _all _physically impossible. And it was the answer that made the most sense in these circumstances.

"Come _on_," he said. "Roland, I just want to do a quick exam, just to make sure you're all right."

Roland glared at him for a moment, then sighed and let Jeb help him up. "Fine."

_Please__ let this be a false alarm,_ Jeb prayed, with all the fervor a not-very-religious mad scientist could summon. _Please let me just be an idiot. Just... please let him be all right._

Reality, however, disagreed with him.

Halfway to the infirmary, Roland gasped and stopped walking, putting one hand against the wall to steady himself.

"Are you all right?" Jeb asked, stopping next to him, nervously looking up and down the hallway.

"...fucking _hurts_," Roland growled, and that was when Reilly came around the corner.

Reilly's eyes widened. "Is everything, um, OK?"

"Go get Dr. Prescott," Jeb said, turning slightly to face him. "Tell him to come to the infirmary. Now."

_I am not going to panic,_ he promised himself. _Not. Panicking._

"What do you want me to tell him?"

"Just... tell him it's Roland." Distracted as Jeb was, he'd rather not make Reilly explain precisely what was going on. Especially when Jeb himself only had the faintest of ideas.

"Yessir." He set off in the direction of Prescott's office.

Ter Borcht grinned and caught Jeb's eye. "Thank you," he said, and let go of the wall before he started walking again.

"For what?" Jeb kept pace with him -- decided what the hell and slipped his hand into Roland's.

The corners of his lips turned upward again in a brief smile. "For everything." He squeezed Jeb's hand. "You have been," he said, with the false spontaneity of a man who knows _exactly_ what he wants to say, "very kind to me. I didn't expect you to let me drag you into this..."

Jeb wasn't sure whether he should laugh or be angry. He recognized the dull resignation in ter Borcht's voice, and hearing that made him angry -- but it was also somewhat amusing, given that he was usually so _cheerful_.

"Oh, _shut up_," he said, and settled for stealing a quick kiss.

"What?" Ter Borcht sounded confused.

"You're talking," he said in his best severe, scolding voice (which wasn't very good at all), "as if you're going to die. You're not. And even if you did... if I had to... if I had to go into Hell itself to find you, I'd do it. Just to bring you back to me."

For a moment he said nothing, and Jeb wondered if perhaps he'd said exactly the wrong thing.

"Thank you," Roland said at last.

Then again, maybe not.

"You're welcome."

Would he really, though? Orpheus had gone to Hell and back for his Eurydice... and then again, he decided with a smile, that was really a terrible comparison.

The only point that really matched was dedication.

* * *

"You could have _told_ me he was in labor," Prescott said with idle, weary amusement as he washed his hands. Jeb stood uncertainly near him, not knowing where he ought to be, or what he ought to be doing.

"I didn't want to jump to conclusions." He folded his arms over his chest, keeping steady eye contact with Roland, who was sitting on one of the beds, seemingly agitated. Jeb tried to see him as Prescott might, but gave up after a moment: the only thing he could really divine was that Roland was alert to what was going on around him, and then Jeb got distracted by the look of calm blankness on his face. Was he hiding pain, or only anxiety?

Prescott sighed. "That's all right. It's not exactly rocket science. I do have a few questions I'd like to ask him, though."

"Then _ask_ them," ter Borcht interrupted.

"Fine." Prescott turned from the sink to face him. "How long have you been, eh, having contractions?"

"Since this morning."

If Prescott was surprised, he didn't show it. "Forgive the intrusion, but why didn't you tell someone?"

Roland shrugged. "They weren't that bad, and I thought they might be, um, false labor? They haven't gotten much closer together since then."

"I see," Prescott said coolly. "With your consent, I'd like to start getting you ready for surgery."

"The sooner, the better," ter Borcht snapped.

Prescott raised his eyebrows. "All right. I'll need to go get some things ready, then."

"Fine."

After Prescott left, ter Borcht slumped back, evidently struggling to keep his breathing steady.

"Are you all right?" Jeb asked, crossing the floor to stand next to him, then awkwardly putting his arm around Roland's shoulders.

"That depends on how you define 'all right'." He leaned back against Jeb. "I... can't really get across how much this fucking _hurts_," he observed. "Take my word for it."

"Yes, dear." (For which Jeb received a half-hearted laugh that morphed into a brief gasp of pain.)

_Come on, Prescott_, Jeb thought. _We need you here._ He held onto Roland the best that he could, trying to comfort him, to do something for him -- and he wasn't sure if that was enough.

"You two still in there?" Reilly's voice called before he appeared through the doorway. It had been twenty minutes, probably more, since Prescott had left, and Jeb had begun to idly wonder if they'd been forgotten about.

"_You_," ter Borcht said. "Really?"

"I drew short straw." He shrugged. "Prescott's waiting for you -- Jeb, if you want to, uh, watch, you'll need to gown up and all that shit."

"I know." He let go of Roland, and stepped back, let him get up to follow Reilly. "I think I need to sit for a moment, though."

"I understand," ter Borcht said softly, turning back to look at him. "Come soon, though." He paused, then smiled. "I love you."

"Love you too," Jeb said.

And then he was gone. Roland was gone, following Reilly to the operating room.

Jeb suddenly found himself sitting down, head spinning. Maybe he was a little slow, but it had taken him until now to realize that there was a very real possibility he might lose Roland tonight.

Well, he'd known the raw facts for months, but... emotionally, it took until then to hit him.

Roland could die.

Just... that didn't seem possible. No. That couldn't have been the last time they'd talk to each other. No. That didn't make sense. Jeb had lost enough of the people he loved -- surely fate wouldn't be so cruel as to take another loved one from him?

He hoped not.

He adjusted his glasses and got up. What the hell was he sitting around for? The least he could do, if he couldn't offer bona fide help, was to just be _there_ for Roland, be near him to offer what comfort he could.

And to Jeb's credit, he did try to do just that.

Reality just didn't agree with him.


	63. Hey, Wake Up!

Chapter Sixty-Three: Hey, Wake Up!

You're fairly sure this isn't typical, but it just doesn't seem all that important.

Nothing does, particularly.

Except the ferry. This must be a dream, but the ferry still seems dreadfully important.

"You have to let me on," you insist to the woman selling tickets. "It's very important."

She raises her eyebrows. "Yeah? Were you raised by wolves? You have to pay." Yes, you know that. Two silver coins.

"I'll see." You avoid her gaze, pale blue and piercing, to search your pockets. Results: a pen, two pennies, a business card. You offer her the pennies, the best you can do.

"No. It has to be silver." She crosses her arms, looks you in the eye.

"Then I'm sorry," you tell her. "Can't I pay you later?"

"No." She smiles, brushes a strand of sandy-blonde hair out of her face. The early-morning air is cold, and smells like metal -- like frozen steel. She nods, then indicates someone behind you. "Aren't they waiting for you?"

You turn to look, water lapping at the dock under your feet. Is this an ocean, or only a river?

"They" are a man and a little girl -- his daughter, from the resemblance between them. The man is somewhere in his forties or fifties -- he has a kind face, and light brown hair going grey at the temples. And the girl looks to be about five or six, her light blonde hair long and braided.

"Are they?" you ask.

The man has his arm around the girl's shoulders as she stands on the guardrail keeping them from the water -- she's looking out into the distance, searching the horizon for something that's not there.

Her father turns and looks at you, as if to ask "When will you be done?"

You recognize him, the instant before he vanishes.

He's Jeb, and the girl is your daughter; how could it have taken you so long to see that?

The air smells like copper and cold steel, electricity and blood -- and suddenly the ferry doesn't seem so important anymore. Not compared to your family.

"I'm sorry," you tell her, before you run to find them.

* * *

He woke up tired and sore.

But he was _alive_, and that was better than he'd hoped for.

The light, when he opened his eyes, had a diffusive early-morning quality to it. He didn't have his glasses, but everything he could see seemed brighter, more defined in that light.

Maybe it was something about having spent the last nine months in the patient assumption that he was going to die. Having that disproved (for the moment, at least) made everything seem a little brighter.

That strange dream was still clear in his mind, but it was already fading -- confronted by the light of reality, even a vivid dream like that one couldn't remain permanent.

_So I'm alive_, he thought. _Now what_?

Assuming that he was really alive, and that this wasn't just another pleasant dream (though you could hardly call dreaming about what had to be a metaphor for death _pleasant_)... he had to make sure that Elizabeth was all right.

That, after all, was the purpose of this experiment -- to determine if the child could survive.

Fuck his own survival. She was his daughter.

Yes, so logically she should be fine -- but he needed to see her with his own eyes. Logic could only do so much -- there were things he had to be emotionally certain of, as well.

He pressed his hands against his eyes -- he'd only just woken up, but _God_...

Well, yes, he felt tired, and that made sense, but... he also felt a confusing mishmash of other things that he couldn't quite sort out or put names to.

Stress, he decided. Or the absence of it, maybe. Either way.

* * *

"_Jeb_. Earth to Space Cadet?"

He blinked and looked up. "Sorry?"

Reilly was staring at him irately.

"Is something wrong?" Jeb tried, feeling a cold tremor go up his spine. Reilly and Prescott had banished him here to the lounge after deciding that pacing wasn't going to do him any good, and anyway he was only making a nuisance of himself. He'd tried to insist that he was doing exactly the opposite, but somehow he'd been persuaded into coming out here.

"Depends on your point of view." Reilly crossed his arms. "Don't _panic_, for Chrissake. Everything's fine."

"You implied something was wrong," Jeb pointed out, rather anxiously. _Hey, when the hell did I stand up_? he wondered.

"Roland's awake, and he about bit my head off when I tried to ask how he was feeling." Reilly ran a hand through his hair, then recrossed his arms, grinning nervously. "He was gonna come find you, but he asked me to go instead."

"Yeah?"

"He's _fine_. I checked on Elizabeth and she's _also_ fine. Simmer down a little, OK?"

"I _am_ simmered down," Jeb insisted, wondering if it would be impolite to put a quick end to the conversation so he could get to the infirmary as quickly as possible.

"Yeah, the fuck you are." Reilly sighed, trying to make eye contact with Jeb. "Go. Talk to him. I'm not gonna keep you here." He stepped away from the door, letting Jeb step past him on his way out.

"Thanks," Jeb said automatically, and bolted. His feet knew the way to the infirmary, even when his mind was only half-present, and he had the clarity to think:

_Roland, you'd better be all right. I'm not going to lose you._

And -- Jeb got the feeling that someone he loved _was_ all right, for once.

Like maybe the universe was deciding to be _good_ to him, like it had decided that he'd taken enough punishment for one man, and now it was going to go easy on him.

Yeah, whatever -- as long as Roland and Elizabeth were all right -- as long as Jeb's _family_ was all right -- he didn't give much of a damn about the universe, he found.

And that was fine by him.


	64. hello world

Chapter Sixty-Four: hello world

Were his hands _shaking_?

Leaning against the wall, unable to bring himself to go into the infirmary -- Jeb determined that they were.

There was no reason for him to be nervous. Roland was _fine_ -- hadn't Reilly told him as much?

Still. The last time Jeb had seen him (over his shoulder as Prescott shooed him out of the room), Roland had been lying pale and unconscious on the operating table -- not exactly a memory that made Jeb certain he was all right.

And rationally Jeb understood why Prescott would have wanted him out of the room -- in case something went disastrously wrong. Prescott might believe that science and emotion belonged far, far away from each other, but at some level, Jeb assured himself, he did understand, and he wouldn't want Jeb forced to stand helplessly by while Roland died in front of him.

Besides, if things had gotten _that_ bad, at that point Jeb would only be getting in the way, anyway.

Everything was fine, though -- it had to be. If it weren't, someone would have _told_ him... wouldn't they?

He made a conscious effort to keep his hands steady. No use worrying.

_It's so fitting that it's morning_, he thought, and went through the door.

For all that he might be all right, Roland looked terribly pale. And yet he seemed happy somehow -- he didn't even look up when Jeb halted a few steps from the door.

He felt like he'd walked into someone else's life -- or maybe a movie. Somehow he'd been expecting to see his daughter for the first time in some different place -- somewhere dark.

Certainly not _here_, in this room full of light -- artificial, fluorescent, but still warm, still _light_. He'd thought, maybe, that Roland might live this long -- but hadn't dreamed of seeing him in a hospital bed with Elizabeth in his arms.

-- Enough. He knocked on the doorframe, and Roland looked up in surprise before smiling. "Come here," he said.

"It's so good to see you," Jeb said, absurdly tempted to run to his side. He settled for walking.

"I've missed you too," he said, and Jeb put an arm around his shoulders. Was it possible that he felt fragile, that he seemed more delicate now than before -- how could that be true, when he and Jeb had seen each other only hours before?

Jeb kissed him, brushing his lips against the skin of his cheek, trying to reassure himself that Roland was really here, really _alive_, that he wasn't just dreaming all this. It had been hard to be sure that he'd live, when Roland himself had always been so certain of his death.

He _felt_ real enough, to Jeb -- his jaw rough with stubble, his skin warm (though he was pale), his breathing steady.

"I don't know what I would've done without you," Jeb whispered in his ear.

"Love you too." He leaned against Jeb. "I was... talking to Elsa before you came in," he said, as if he were confessing something.

Jeb had thought he was hearing things, when he heard soft murmuring as he stood in the hall. "Elsa?" He hadn't really thought of pet names, or of shortening Elizabeth to something more manageable. But it fit her, he thought.

"Elizabeth sounded too formal -- so, Elsa." Jeb heard the hint of a smile in his voice as he added, "You don't mind?"

_As if I could object to what her father calls her._

"No, of course not," he said.

God in heaven, she looked so _small_, cradled in Roland's arms, wrapped in white cloth (that looked to him like it might once have been a scrub shirt or a lab coat). Subject Eleven -- _Angel_, he reminded himself -- was far out of infancy, and she was the youngest child Jeb had known in years.

Except, now, Elsa.

He loved her, he realized as he looked down at her sleeping face -- she was his daughter, and he loved her.

Jeb didn't have the best of track records in love. He'd fucked up pretty badly in the past -- he'd been forced to abandon Max, had failed to protect Ari, hadn't even been able to stay faithful to Val.

But this time would be different -- was already different. Roland had been nothing if not dedicated and loving, and Jeb was determined to do the best he could for him in return -- and for their daughter.

Roland sighed, interrupting Jeb's train of thought. "She looks more like you, I think." He laughed, stroked her forehead. "She has your nose, see?"

He couldn't see the resemblance -- maybe he was just unfamiliar with his own features, though. If anything, to him she looked more like Roland half-awake, his expression of sleepy calm.

"She's beautiful," Jeb said at last.

"You're her father. Of course you think she's beautiful," Roland said, teasing him. He didn't seem at all like a man who'd been courting death -- he seemed calm, happy.

"Well, you're her father too, aren't you?"

"Yes," he said simply.

Jeb hugged him, not knowing what to say next.

She was their daughter -- _theirs_, his and Roland's -- and... for her sake? He'd do whatever he had to.

She opened her eyes -- dark, newborn blue -- and he felt sure she was looking at them -- her parents. Her _fathers._

Jeb smiled at her, touched the tip of her nose with a finger. He'd wondered with Roland, off and on, what they'd say to her if they got the chance. This would have to do. "Good morning, Elsa."

She grabbed his finger, looking up at him innocently, and from that moment on he was sold. She needed him -- needed both her fathers. And Jeb would be there for her, no matter what.

"Love you," he told her, and to him? It looked like she heard.


	65. Forgiveness

Chapter Sixty-Five: Forgiveness

As a rule, Jeb didn't remember his dreams. Only his nightmares stuck around after he woke up -- and it helped that it was always the same nightmare, night after night.

Jeb wasn't a person to change very much, and so the horrors that haunted him were always the same.

Except... tonight.

* * *

Flakes of ash surround me -- the air is hot and smoky, hard to breathe already. The house is burning down, and I know the fire department won't get here in time -- if someone even sees the smoke to call in a fire.

But the children are safe, and that's the most important thing. My notes don't matter. The house doesn't matter.

Someday, these kids are going to save the world.

They're all that matters to me.

We're standing slightly downhill from and to the side of the house -- far enough away to be safe, which is still close enough to feel the heat. The trees are trimmed back from the house that the fire shouldn't spread.

I do another head count, just to reassure myself.

Fang and Iggy, next to a pine tree -- the one that Fang broke his left arm falling out of when we first came here, and I can still see the scar where the branch he was standing on snapped off (and that was when I decided that the kids had to learn to fly, experimental procedure be damned). Fang's wide-eyed, telling Iggy in a low whisper what the fire looks like. Iggy's nodding eagerly along with his words.

Then Gazzy and Angel holding hands, standing in a cluster with Nudge a few feet from the older boys.

After them... Max, who was right beside me a moment ago, is suddenly gone.

And I _know_ she's gone back into the house. I don't know why, but that's where she is, and I have to go find her.

"Stay here," I tell the five of them. Fang nods -- the others, except Iggy, only watch me with solemn eyes. I have high hopes for Fang. He'll do great things someday, I believe that.

So without a second thought I run back into the house.

I don't know where she's gone. I'll have to search all the rooms -- and fast. The air is full of smoke, almost too thick to breathe, and I know that even a young, healthy avian-human hybrid can't take this atmosphere for long.

"Max!" I call, shouting above the roar of the blaze. "Max, where are you?"

One of the rules I am supposed to follow is that if some event outside my control occurs and injures one of the kids, I am not to interfere more than necessary.

Well... Max is my daughter, whether or not I've had the chance to raise her as a father should. What's "necessary" to me is whatever it takes to keep her safe.

So I feel justified in this.

I check each of the kids' rooms, the kitchen, the laundry room, even the linen closet, and she isn't in any of the places I look. Though smoke obscures my vision and the heat grows by the minute, I still try as hard as I can to find her.

And I can't find her.

The only room I haven't checked, the only place she could be, is my study. I open the door, coughing. "Max? Are you in here?" I should get out of here -- my lungs can only take so much abuse -- but I have to get Max out of here.

She's more important than me, in the grand scheme of things.

I hear her voice before I see her, the smoke is so thick around us. "Dad?" She wraps her arms around me. Both of us are covered in ash and soot. "I was looking for you!" She buries her head in my shoulder, if only for a moment.

My eyes are tearing from the smoke, and I can dimly hear the fire alarms shrieking. How long can the house stay up? I don't want to risk it. "Come on, Max. We need to get out of here."

She lets go of me, grabs my hand instead, and for just a second I'm reminded of how essentially childish she is. I don't know how I'll manage to leave her. I'm not sure how she'll cope without me.

But there are times to think about the future, and now isn't really one of them.

So we get out of there, as fast as we can.

* * *

The first thing Jeb wondered as he woke was why he was alone -- _where's Roland?_

His head cleared after a moment, and he remembered: Prescott had asked that Roland stay at least overnight in the infirmary, and he had grudgingly agreed.

Jeb fumbled for his glasses, then glared at the clock until it resolved into something resembling focus. Three in the morning. He'd sleep a little more.

He took his glasses back off, set them down, closed his eyes.

His nightmares -- well, his nightmare -- had never changed before. Why had the ending suddenly changed? It had been nearly a year since he'd left the house in Colorado, and he'd almost gotten used to these nightmares of fire, of being unable to save Max.

This time, instead of failing, somehow he'd managed to rescue her after all.

Maybe that was a sign that he was... moving past it. He hadn't wanted to leave, but it had come down to staying at the house or keeping his job, and he'd chosen his job.

Had that been the right decision? He wasn't sure. After all, if he hadn't come back to the School, he would never have fallen in love with Roland, and Jeb wouldn't give him up for the world -- as grand as a mad scientist's dreams could be, they didn't count for much with no one to share them with.

If he'd stayed with the kids in Colorado, he would've been able to raise Max as his daughter, not as an experiment.

Even if he'd stayed, though, he would have found out at some point what had been done to Ari. Stuck hundreds of miles away, probably barred from returning to the School, he'd have been more powerless than he was now -- and he'd have had to keep caring for the children, all six of them, through his grief.

Jeb wasn't sure he'd have been able to do that.

Maybe in the end, he thought, he _had_ made the right decision.

Either way -- for the first time in a long time, he couldn't predict the outcome with any feeling of accuracy.

And despite that, he was somehow certain that, whatever happened, it would all work out in the end. Where once uncertainty would have driven him to get out of bed and start looking for solid conclusions... the concept of not knowing the future seemed almost attractive.

He smiled despite himself -- being with Roland had definitely changed him, and the evidence so far was that it had been for the better.

With that, he fell back asleep.


	66. I'll Let You Go

Chapter Sixty-Six: I'll Let You Go

Doctor Sheila Harrison was nearing the limits of her bullshit tolerance.

"Well, run the trial again, exactly as I just put it in," she told the tech at the computer. "If it doesn't work, come grab me."

"Yes, Doctor," the poor bastard muttered. It wasn't his fault that the software wasn't working -- it _was_ her problem that thanks to that, they were behind schedule. And because it was her problem, it was also his.

She hardly had the time to take more than a few steps before the phone at her desk rang.

_It's impolite to answer with 'Who the hell is this?'_, she reminded herself, and picked up with a smooth, "You've reached Dr. Harrison, what do you need?"

"Hey there! Just wonderin' how you're doing," the voice on the other end said brightly.

"Cut the bullshit," Harrison said. "Kyle, what is it? If it's not something involving how you've fixed your damn buggy software, I don't need to hear it."

"Well, I have come up with a patch," he said, talking fast. "You want I should get that online?"

"As soon as possible."

"Let me put you on hold for just a second." She heard the clunk of the phone being set down on something desk-like, followed by spurts of rapid typing before Kyle picked the phone up again. "All right, I just sent out the update. You should see an alert in a little bit, and once you have that runnin' everything should be just fine."

"Thanks." She put her hand over the receiver, spoke briskly to the tech working with said buggy damned software. "The designer just put a quick patch through. Things should run faster this time around."

He gave her an absent-minded thumbs-up before returning his eyes to the screen.

Harrison took her hand off the receiver and spoke to Kyle again. "All right. Was there another reason why you called?"

"Uh..." She could practically hear the sheepish grin that was no doubt on his face right now. He might be a damn good programmer, but he was still little more than a kid -- well, compared to an old fogie like herself, anyway. "Well, yeah..."

"Get to the point." Harrison forced herself not to start drumming her fingers on the desk. Or pacing back and forth.

"Jeez, don't bite my head off," he said amiably, still _stalling_. Goddammit.

"I might have to. You've patched your software -- is there another reason you need to talk to me?" Screw it. She started drumming her fingers on the desk.

"_Well_," he said, drawling out the word far past the point where it became irritating, "you might want to meet with me in person. It's complicated."

If he couldn't explain it over the phone, it was likely that he couldn't explain it at all. Harrison rubbed at her forehead where a headache was trying to get started. "All right. I have some things I need to get set up. And it had better be damned important."

He sighed, making static crackle on the line. "It ain't national security, Doc, but it's something you'll want to hear."

"Fine."

"So I'll be seeing you up here in ten minutes?" he said brightly.

If he'd been standing in front of her right then, she would've decked him one in the jaw, no doubt about it. Harrison considered herself a calm woman, but there were some times when it was all just too much.

"Fine. General employee lounge?"

"Affirmative, ma'am," he said, his voice surprisingly grave. Maybe, God forbid, he was actually listening to her tone of voice, and had divined how pissed off she was.

Or maybe he was making one of his frequent, dorky attempts to be funny.

"All right, then," she said, and hung up.

The tech -- what _was_ his name, anyway? something like Michael, she was pretty sure -- didn't spare a glance for her, his eyes firmly trained on the computer simulation, hand and pen ready on his clipboard. Machines had the advantage over biological experiments in this field, anyway -- you didn't necessarily have to field-test them.

Well. _Necessarily_. In this case, it was looking more and more like they were going to have to drag their expensive models out into the open for a full-scale field-test -- if not now, then at _some_ point in the future.

She'd rather hoped they wouldn't have to. Millions of dollars had gone into this project, after all -- and the people responsible for that funding _so_ hated seeing their money wasted.

Harrison sighed. "I'll be back in a moment," she told the tech -- Chris was his name, she remembered. "I have to go meet with the designer. Page me if you need me back here sooner."

"Will do, Doctor." He glanced up at her for a moment, flashed her a grin.

Harrison keycarded the door out of the lab open, then shut it behind her as she left. The hallway was mostly empty and somewhat cold, as usual. Sometimes she wondered if maybe a space heater would be a good investment for her lab (which was generally even colder than the hall), but cool air was good for the computers, and it was a nice contrast to the weather outside.

The air got gradually warmer as she made her way up the hallway to the stairs. More keycarding -- one thing you couldn't say about the School was that it had too little security.

Up the stairs and through another keycard-protected door, then out into another hallway, lit by sunlight as well as by the fluorescent fixtures in the ceiling.

Keycard again, sign herself out, and then out into the main corridor that ran along the ground floor of the Animal Testing building.

God, it was good to see sunlight. The light bulbs they used underground had been designed, supposedly, to provide the same spectrum of light that sunlight did.

Well. Be that as it may, science still had yet to make a lightbulb that lifted the -- well, the _soul_ -- in the same way natural sunlight did. Perhaps science never would -- it would have to be some damned clever engineering to fool millions of years of evolutionary programming.

Outside, the sky was, above the scudding, pale clouds, a shabby shade of blue. Well, it was a sight better than the run of grey weather they'd been having -- and far and away better than an air-conditioned, negative-pressured, underground lab.

By the time she'd gotten into the lounge, Harrison was practically in a good mood, failing, buggy software be damned.

"Morning, Doctor Harrison," Kyle said as soon as she stepped inside.

"Morning, Kyle," she returned. "Can we make it snappy, please?"

"I'll do my best, ma'am."

She crossed her arms. "So why am I here?"

He grinned anxiously. "You might want to sit down."

_Murder is a crime,_ Harrison reminded herself.

Nevertheless, she could have strangled Kyle just then. "I can take it," she snapped. "Just tell me."

"I don't know where to _start_," he said.

_God grant me serenity_... "Try at the beginning."

Maybe dealing with Jeb for all these years _had_ done her some long-term good.

Kyle stammered for a moment, then paused, collected himself, and spoke. "I just thought you'd want to know, uh -- Jeb's daughter was born day before yesterday," he said, in the rushed tones of someone compelled to convey information because no one else wants to.

Harrison blinked and said the only thing she really could.

"What?"

He sighed. "You remember Dr. ter Borcht, right?"

Tall German guy, evidently with some weird medical problem, had a bit of an accent. She hadn't seen him in months, but yes, she remembered him.

"Well, yes," she said.

Kyle took a deep breath and spoke rapidly, more or less making what he said into one very long compound word.

"Well, he was pregnant with Jeb's daughter and she was born two days ago and they're both fine." He took a brief breath and appended, "_Please _don't ask me how that works, 'cause I don't know."

"Oh," she said. Which was, again, all one really _could_ say to that.

... frankly, though, considering Jeb was involved, she'd almost expected something like this. It was like him.

"Well," she managed, "thank you for telling me."

"Yeah, sure," he said, rubbing the back of his neck in a momentary nervous gesture. "Jeb... figured you'd want to know."

"I wonder how he guessed," she said dryly. To be honest, she didn't care _that _much. Well, it was lovely news and all, but she had experiments to run. There was research to be done, after all -- research that didn't involve the social lives of her old friends. "Thanks, but I have--"

"Things you need to be doing?" he said, raising one eyebrow, then laughed. "Yeah, I hear you. I'll go get back to work, too."

"Good." Harrison took a step towards the door. "Take care of that intelligence problem that's been bothering us if you have the time."

"Will do," he said as she stepped out the door. (She knew what he would say after that, anyway -- "I'll see you around, I guess" -- and so she didn't find it necessary to stick around.)

The "intelligence problem" did need to be fixed, though. For whatever reason, the computer models they were testing had the tendency to be worse at problem-solving and more reliant on brute force than the physical models were. No one seemed to know precisely why, but Kyle seemed to be pretty solid that he could get rid of the issue, even if he couldn't locate its precise cause.

So that would be all taken care of soon -- which meant that, given reasonably good luck, they'd be done with this round of tests on or before schedule. Excellent.

Harrison keycarded herself back into the -- well, you really had to call it a secret hallway, or at least one limited to those with proper clearance and who were assigned to the proper project, and fumbled in her pockets for a pen to sign in with. Security was _such_ a hassle.

How long had it been since she'd even talked to Jeb? She couldn't remember. Late May? June? Jesus.

To think she'd been the one who'd once harped on _him_ about getting too caught up in his work to talk to people. She'd have to at least corner him for a few moments sometime, ask how he'd been, apologize for disappearing.

Down the stairs, away from sunlight. You couldn't really blame her for vanishing for that long -- it was a difficult project to work on, and she still had her other work to deal with as well. She'd been putting off a psych evaluation on Ari for a week now -- she just couldn't seem to find the time.

God. Speaking of Ari -- if she ever did get round to talking to Jeb... well, _when_ she got around to it, there could be no if about it -- she'd have to apologize to Jeb as best she could. They'd been awfully, awfully rough, the way they'd broken the news to him.

And at this point she was fairly certain that while the waiver had been signed "Jeb Batchelder", Prescott had forged that signature. Dear God. She'd considered quitting for a moment after she'd found that out -- but if she left, she'd never be able to tie up all the loose ends she'd leave behind.

She keycarded in and the quality of the air changed -- dry, air-conditioned, under negative pressure. Good for the machines they kept down here, bad for the human subconscious. Consciously, it hardly bothered you -- but the body, the lizard-brain, just never quite got used to it.

Harrison was fairly sure there was a micro-bio lab somewhere down here, too -- further reason for the negative pressure. Keep all the nasties down here, away from the people aboveground.

Forty years before, this place had still been an active military base. These underground structures were all that remained from that earlier base (well, so far as Harrison knew), and it was pretty obvious -- they just had that military-base _ambiance. _On late nights, when the halls were pretty much deserted, Harrison sometimes found herself half-expecting a nuclear-attack siren to go off overhead, or a man in uniform to come around the corner and ask her for her security clearance.

The School had been built over top of a creepy, creepy place -- but at least the land had been cheap, and the military had seemed pretty content with the deal. Concrete held up well in the dry air, anyway, and the structures the military had handed over to three kids fresh out of school, their mentor, and their fledgling company had been in pretty good condition.

As it had turned out, the military had been willing to offer more than their old buildings to the young School -- they'd offered funding, too, and eventually had started coming to the School to make whatever new toy they wanted that year. Fifteen years ago it had been super-soldiers. This year it was robotic super-soldiers.

Hmmph. Harrison keycarded the door to the lab open. She hoped Doctor ter Borcht was in good condition and not leaving any time soon -- she'd been hoping to get his opinion on some of their work. He'd probably have at least some advice on their continuing work on the Erasers, considering how skilled he was with smooth interspecies genetic grafting.

And she wouldn't regret the opportunity to maybe get a little scientific gossiping in with him about Itexicon's new projects, if she could get an opportunity. Technically speaking, the School was part of Itexicon, but being as far out in the figurative boonies as they were, they didn't hear as much of the latest developments as Harrison would've liked. Doctor ter Borcht had come all the way from the world headquarters at Lendeheim -- doubtless he'd know _something_ about what they were up to lately.

The man might be a little irritating sometimes, with his crazy ideas (that somehow always managed to work out) and somewhat... unique personality (not abrasive so much as disorientingly reliable), but the world would definitely be at a loss without him.

He was no replacement for Jeb, though.

"I'm back, Chris," she said, and the tech at the computer glanced up for a moment.

"My name is Michael," he said mildly.

* * *

By that point in time, Marian's worries over Roland had subsided to a low background annoyance. Someone would contact her if anything went wrong. Why waste her energy worrying?

Besides, there was other work to be done -- as much as she cared for her friend, she had other priorities. (And she was fairly confident that he'd be perfectly fine, or at least that things would work out in the end -- of the two of them, she was definitely the more optimistic.)

He'd always hated it when she made a fuss over him, mostly because he thought of himself as the sensible one. Marian wouldn't have any of that nonsense, not in this world or any other. Roland _tried_ to be reasonable, yes, but sometimes he just fell short of the mark.

You just had to look at this experiment to see that -- while the project as a whole was itself rooted in sanity, recklessly volunteering himself as a subject was definitely not the kind of action a sane man would take.

She could practically hear what he'd say to that just then -- he would laugh, his little oh-are-you-kidding-me laugh, and then he'd say, "Really, Marian -- what gave you the impression I was sane?"

Probably the part where, unlike the other mad scientists Marian had had the dubious pleasure of working with, Roland was quite capable of not dashing off on wild-goose chases (well, not too often, anyway) and keeping his mind on the task at hand. It would've been an admirable personality trait even in someone who didn't have his -- disorder.

She had to smile, thinking of him now -- when they'd met, the first thing she'd thought was how disorderly he seemed, and she'd wondered what had _possessed_ Itexicon to hire the man. She'd heard of him, a little, but frankly she didn't understand why Itexicon would take the risk of hiring him to work for them.

It had then proceeded to turn out that the cheerfully disheveled man she'd met was as talented a geneticist as she'd heard he was. Apparently years of working with plants had both made him patient and made him more curious about how his techniques would work out in animals -- given that he had a generally calm disposition to begin with, he turned out to be a charming co-worker after all, and a good friend to boot.

What she figured was that that gave her a little license to worry about him -- just as his friend, mind. She'd been worried about him since he'd first volunteered to be their subject, but now she was starting to get anxious.

If only there was something she could _do_ about it. She'd politely asked that he damn well keep his ass in Germany for the full nine months, and he'd just as politely (and, what was worse, _logically_) demurred.

Which left her pacing a hole in the floor half a world away from him, dependent on written reports to make sure he hadn't done anything stupid. (Would it have killed him to call? Just once?)

It wasn't as if she didn't have anything to do, though -- some days it was heartbreakingly easy to forget that the man she counted as her best friend was halfway across the world and quite possibly on the edge of death.

Given the right amount of preoccupation, you could forget almost anything, though. And she really had no cause to worry -- she was letting her emotions take control of her. He'd be fine.

Now, if he could only remember to _call_ her, she thought, suppressing a smile as she pushed her coffee cup away from her across the desk. The kids from Project Übermensch were due for a performance checkup around this time, and she had her eye on the boy Omega -- he looked promising.

Yes, she did care for Roland -- yes, she kept him in her thoughts.

But she had other things to worry about just now -- and the best she could do from here was hope.

He'd do just fine on his own.


	67. You'll Let Me Down

Chapter Sixty-Seven: You'll Let Me Down

"Dad's not coming back, is he?" Ari said, watching Harrison input her report into the computer.

"Why do you say that?" she responded, making her automatic response to a question she couldn't answer -- another question.

"I'm not stupid." He swung his heels back and forth. "If he was coming back somebody would've told me."

No matter how long Harrison spent working with him, it was always going to be weird hearing a child's voice coming out of a teenage boy's mouth. "He's just... really busy right now. As soon as he gets back he's going to come see you."

"That's what you said last year," he said, hazel eyes still trained on her in that unnerving, unblinking way.

"Well, he's still not back yet." And last year, Ari had been so quiet he was practically mute -- at least now he was talking.

He watched her for a few more moments, then asked suddenly, "Can we play Speed?"

Honestly, after playing that game with him every time she did a psych evaluation on him, Harrison would rather have taught him to play poker. "Sure," she said, and shut the computer down. "Can you get the cards out?"

"OK!" He streaked off toward the cabinet where they kept his board games and toys.

To look at him -- well, Harrison would've been hard-pressed to see Ari as anything but a quiet, somewhat childish teenager.

Given that she knew that he was still two months shy of six -- well.

"I got the cards," he announced, snapping her out of her reverie, and put the worn deck of Bicycle playing cards down on the desk. "Can I shuffle?"

"Go ahead."

Who'd taught him to shuffle a deck of cards? She had to wonder -- Harrison was fairly sure it hadn't been her. Somebody must have, though.

Maybe his father had.

"Ari, who taught you to shuffle like that?"

"Huh?" He looked up from the cards for a moment, then shrugged. "Dunno." He shoved the cards across the desk to her. "You deal."

The last time she'd played cards with Jeb had been just before he left -- a friendly pick-up game of blackjack. He'd seemed awfully distracted; he hadn't refused to play, but his mind hadn't been on the game. (Had it ever been? They'd played cards sometimes when the three of them were still in college -- her, Jeb, and Valencia -- but he'd never been any good at it.)

She dealt out the game, the cards almost slipping through her fingers. The shiny finish had worn off them a long time ago, and even the printing on their faces was beginning to wear.

How often did Ari play cards to make this deck so tattered?

"OK... start," she said, and they turned over their cards.

Ari played almost absently -- Speed was his favorite card game, it seemed, or at least it had been for these past few months.

Then again, he was _five_.

"Speed!" he announced, and put his hand down on the pile of cards. Harrison had barely been paying attention.

"Two out of three," she said, grinning as she scooped up the cards to reshuffle and redeal them. "I have work to do."

"OK," he said calmly, watching the cards move between her hands. "If you need to leave, that's OK."

There was something fundamentally not _right_ about hearing words like those on a little boy's lips.

Harrison had always indulged a little bad habit of hers -- it was better than some bigger vice, and she'd teased Doctor Prescott about his smoking before he'd quit, telling him that she at least had the sense to keep a vice that wouldn't kill her. She had a bad habit of making promises to herself.

This one was a little different from the norm.

Come hell or high water, she was going to drag Jeb Batchelder down here and _force_ him to sit down and talk to his son. Ari didn't deserve this.

If Jeb tried to get out of it, she swore she'd gut him with her own two hands -- yank out the coward's liver and feed it to him, maybe (she'd had a flair for the grotesquely dramatic, once).

Harrison was a little shaky on her moral code, wasn't quite sure of its dictates, but she _did_ know that it just wasn't acceptable to do what Jeb had done. No matter your reasons, you do _not_ abandon a child.

Maybe this was just her trying to atone for her own crimes by forcing Jeb to own up to his, but goddammit, Ari was his _son_. No matter what rationale Jeb could offer, leaving him behind had been the wrong thing to do.

She might've been friends with Jeb, once, but they'd always had different ways of looking at the world.

* * *

"Good _morning_, starshine!"

Reilly cracked one eye open. "Kyle, what time is it?" _If it's before seven, I'm going to kill him, whether or not he's a good lay._

"One minute past seven." Kyle's blurry face grinned at him. Satanically. Or at least it looked that way to Reilly, who really wanted nothing more from the world than the ability to roll over and sleep for a few more years. "Happy Valentine's Day."

"Fuck off," Reilly told him. "Valentine's Day was two days ago."

"Yeah, but I didn't see you then." He pouted. Honest to God _pouted_. "What did I do?"

If Reilly hadn't been so lazy, he might well have punched Kyle in the arm just then. Fucker deserved it, anyway. "Wasn't anything you did, idiot."

"Yeah? What was it?"

_Damn your persistence._ Reilly would much rather sleep... but then again, he did have a job to do at some point today. Surveillance. Thrilling.

"I was up until like oh-dark-thirty that night. I was _sleeping_, man."

Kyle raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? What had you up so late?"

Reilly swiped a palm over his eyes, focused on saying his words clearly the first time through. "Doctor ter Borcht went into labor at, like, fuckety-whenever that night -- I mean, the night before -- oh, whatever. Prescott called me in to help him out with the surgery. Things got a little complex, we didn't get done for like forever, and I don't think my perception of time will ever be the same."

Silence, and then Kyle sighed. "Well, about the time-perception, you could, like, try taking your meds, maybe. Fuckface."

"What I need is _sleep,_ not a lecture," he said automatically, and then realized what he'd just heard. Kyle had a point there. "You get 'em and I'll take 'em."

"You dip," Kyle said fondly. "You're a lazy piece of shit, you know that?"

"And yet you keep me around."

Kyle shoved the pills into his hand, and Reilly curled his fingers around them. "You're just trying to get me up."

"Yeah. So? C'mon. People need you, Reilly."

_I know that. Man... just let me sleep five more minutes. _Reilly laid his free arm over his eyes. "I'm not in a getting-up mood right now. Because I'm not awake."

"You're coherent." He ruffled Reilly's hair. "That means you're awake. So get the hell out of bed already."

"No."

"Well, I can't _make_ you, I guess." He trailed off, and Reilly almost thought he was giving up... well, until he felt a cold hand on his neck.

Which was when he didn't scream like a little girl -- he just made a strangled squeaky noise that, unstifled, might've sounded like a girly scream. "Jesus _Christ_, man!" he hissed.

Kyle laughed. "There's a whole world out there waiting for you. Go conquer it, Doctor."

"All right." He got up. _Kyle, when I rule the world... you'll be the last one I kill. If I kill anyone at all... yeah, you won't be one of 'em._

_...Man, I gotta lay off of the crack._


	68. The Space Between

Chapter Sixty-Eight: The Space Between

"How the hell is he not _dead_?" Marian snarled, suppressing the urge to slam her fist on the desk. Not only would that not help, it would only get her bruises -- not _results_, or _explanations,_ or _a world in which logic still applied._

Which would all have been awfully nice, to be honest.

"Frankly, I have no idea, Director."

Marian closed her eyes for a moment, struggling to regain her calm. Her best friend was a fucking _idiot_ -- no, that wouldn't do.

"I was _not_ expecting him to survive," she said through clenched teeth.

"None of us were."

Marian forced herself to relax. "I know that, Petra," she said evenly.

"So... besides that." Petra forged on ahead. "Damien and Ivan have located some potential volunteers..."

"Can it wait ten minutes, please?" Marian said, composing herself.

Petra looked as though she were about to object. "Yes, Director," she said finally. "I'll, uh, go wait outside."

She summoned up her best steely gaze. "That would be excellent, Dr. Sokoloff."

"Sure," Petra muttered, seeming to wilt as she scurried out of the office.

Marian _hated_ having to do that to people.

Sometimes, though, it was necessary. She had things to do now, not least of which was calling Doctor ter Borcht.

She wasn't _evil_ -- they hadn't hung their success on his eventual death -- but his failure to expire had certainly put a new kink in things.

The bastard had better be keeping detailed medical records, for one thing -- better than the rushed, inconclusive reports she had right now. Yes, she understood that they hadn't been prepared -- the surgery date had been set for next week, and it wasn't surprising that Jeb had had no contingency plan in case they were forced to operate before then. (She didn't know him well, but -- from what she did know, it was _so_ typical of him.)

For rushed notes, probably composed by Doctor Prescott and someone else on the spot... well, they could've been worse. There wasn't very much there, but what there was was quite clear.

Ter Borcht's contractions had started around 8:00 the morning of February 13th, but he had not received any medical attention until almost 22:00 that night, when he lost consciousness in the presence of Doctor Batchelder, who immediately escorted him to the infirmary.

Doctor Prescott arrived at approximately 22:10, and briefly questioned Doctor ter Borcht. After obtaining verbal consent and arranging for use of an operating room, Doctor Prescott began a Caesarean section at 22:30, assisted by Beauregard Reilly and Doctor Thomas Stevens, with Doctor Batchelder observing.

Things had gotten off to a bad start. Doctor Prescott was forced to use general anesthesia rather than regional, as had been planned. At that point, Doctor Batchelder was removed from the operating room.

Massive blood loss had occurred after the birth -- however, Doctor Prescott had been able to stabilize the patient's condition in time to prevent his death. Both the patient and child had survived the surgery, and were reported in good condition.

In other words, ter Borcht somehow wasn't dead.

Somehow.

Marian closed her eyes for a long moment.

Perhaps her mother had been right, and she should've done something different with her life.

Or perhaps she'd made the right choice after all, and this was just one bad day.

She opened her eyes again, checked her watch. Half-past nine in the morning, which meant that at the School it was... what, just past midnight?

Decency prevented her from calling right now.

Marian sighed and pulled a memo pad over to her, then printed neatly, _Call Roland ASAP_. She could remember that, surely?

Well, she'd take it on faith. It might not be very professional of her, but there were times when one had to concede that at the moment, logic simply had no fucking clue what was going on, whereas faith had a shadow of an idea, thus putting faith clearly and squarely in the lead.

She pushed the memo pad off to the side and got up to let Petra in. They'd failed to kill their first subject, which meant it was probably all right to go ahead and look for more volunteers.

Although, she considered in a flare of black humor, one couldn't really call it volunteering when the person involved wasn't precisely in his right mind at the time. You could almost call it disrespect for that person's autonomy -- conscription.

Which would be _very_ illegal, of course.

"Show me the list," she said.

* * *

If Ari tried, he could almost hear his dad's voice reading to him.

But the letters on the page didn't match up with the words he remembered. Not unless he focused on them.

He put his hand on the page, ran his finger under the letters, and read aloud in a struggling voice. He was so _slow_, and that made him wish that his dad or Uncle Kyle were here to help him read.

_Dad's gone, stupid,_ he reminded himself. _And Uncle Kyle's not coming back either._

Ari remembered the last time he'd seen his uncle -- he'd ruffled Ari's hair and said he had to go away for a while, but "it'll be OK, kid, I'll come back".

Ari had nodded and told him that was OK, but he knew that when grownups left like that, they left forever. Anytime someone said they'd be back, they might not be. They probably wouldn't be.

Grownups lied all the time. Like when it was time for his shots and they said it wouldn't hurt at all. That was always a lie. It always hurt, even when they said it wouldn't.

Doctor Harrison said she was going to make his dad come see him as soon as he got back from his "business trip". Ari didn't trust that one bit. Dad's business trip had lasted almost, like, three years, and he still wasn't back. At this point he just wasn't coming back. Ari was sure of it.

Besides, all the whitecoats had promised him something at some time, and they had a bad tendency to never follow through, no matter how much whatever thing they were doing to him sucked.

No matter how nice Doctor Harrison was, she was _still_ a whitecoat. And you couldn't trust whitecoats.

He would be OK if Dad didn't come back, anyway. Ari didn't need him. Sure he was slow, but _look_ -- he could almost read by himself.

Dad might not want him back, too. Ari knew what some of the whitecoats said when they thought he couldn't hear them -- they thought he was some kind of freak. Maybe that's what Dad would think he was, too.

That was OK, though, he thought, trying to look on the bright side like Doctor Harrison sometimes said he should. To the whitecoats, he was a freak -- to himself, he was a werewolf.

How cool was that?


	69. Some Kind Of Good

Chapter Sixty-Nine: Some Kind Of Good

One good thing about being a project manager -- Harrison was finally qualified to give orders, rather than just follow them.

"That's enough, Chris," she said, as the simulation completed another run-through.

"Yes, Doctor," the tech muttered, and hit the 'STOP' button. Onscreen, the helpful little animation came to a halt.

Harrison half-expected it to flash 'WINNERS DON'T DO DRUGS' over a pixelly FBI emblem, but shook the expectation from her head. The stress had to be getting to her -- that, and the lack of sleep.

"You've filed your reports?" For some godforsaken reason, someone on a _much_ higher level in the project had decided that they should submit reports for _every _trial they completed. The simulations they were running here weren't technically trials, since they didn't involve a subject in the field, but Harrison had figured it was better to play things safe.

She did pity the poor schmuck who had to wade through all the reports being submitted, though. Had to be a hell of a job.

Chris grinned and rested his head in his hands. "I will have in a minute."

"Good. Thank you." The man was a treasure -- he'd run the simulation through some 200 iterations of this particular scenario.

"It's no trouble," he said, indicating the terminal in front of him, "considering that all this data's going to help program a field model. Gimme a few minutes to write up this last one and I'll send 'em in. That good enough for you, Doc?"

"That would be fantastic," Harrison said, shutting her eyes against a brief flare of acid clawing its way up her throat. They were going to meet their deadline to submit these reports, but it had been close. She couldn't remember how many cups of coffee the two of them had gone through, staying awake to track each trial's progression.

Well, technically speaking Harrison could've flaked out and left everything to Chris to finish, but she'd always _hated_ it when people did that to her. So she'd at least done him the courtesy of hanging around -- had taken note-taking duties on a few of the trials while Chris fucked off to collapse for a well-deserved catnap, as a matter of fact.

And it had turned out to be worth it, in the end.

Harrison hid a small smile as she watched Chris translate the last few lines of his notes into the somewhat convoluted (but descriptive, you had to admit) language the higher-ups seemed to prefer in the reports submitted to them.

"That's all," he said at last. "Care to take a look, Doctor?"

"No," she said. "Go ahead and submit it."

"Yes, ma'am. And after that?"

"Take a break," she told him. "You deserve one. We'll start the next series of trials tomorrow." She didn't bother to add in the official 'as your superior, I'm giving you the rest of today off' line. It felt condescending and ridiculous.

"Thanks, Doc," he said, keeping his eyes fixed on the screen. "I'll be here at nine for those."

"Good," Harrison said, rather absently. "Now, if you'll excuse me--"

"You have to go talk to Dr. Batchelder," he said without looking up. "Yeah, you mentioned that earlier."

She found herself momentarily nonplussed, but managed to stammer, "Uh, yes, that's right -- I'm not sure when I'll get done with him, so I'll see you tomorrow."

"'S cool," Chris said as she hung her lab coat on a hook by the door. "Oh -- one more thing, Doctor."

"Yes?" she said, hand poised by the keycard reader in preparation to leave.

"Do you know if Dr. ter Borcht is all right? I used to talk to him a bit, and I was kind of wondering -- I figured you might know--"

Good God. Was _everyone_ at the School interested in Jeb's freaky shenanigans? It was beginning to seem like that might be the case.

"He's fine," Harrison said curtly, and fled.

* * *

Ari was feeling kind of nervous.

But it was a _good_ nervous, not like how he felt right before he had a checkup. More like Christmas -- sort of excited -- combined with the nervousness.

He was feeling all weird like this because yesterday Doctor Harrison had come back to see him, even though he'd just had a checkup with her.

She hadn't stayed for very long when she came yesterday -- "I just dropped in to tell you something", she said, and he'd figured it was that he was going to have to get more tests done.

But she'd said someone was going to come visit Ari, and she couldn't say who it was because that would spoil the surprise.

_Maybe it's going to be Wolverine,_ Ari had thought, even though he knew he wasn't real. Wolverine was his favorite X-Man though, 'cause even though the bad guys had done experiments on him, he still used his powers to do good stuff, not evil.

It would be _so_ cool if it was Wolverine, but it was probably just going to be some icky old doctor. That would still be better than nobody, though.

Even the icky old doctors who sometimes came to "observe" him were kind of fun, in a way -- most of the whitecoats didn't really like it when he talked to them, but the observer-doctors thought it was the coolest thing ever.

Ari kicked his legs back and forth under the table while he colored. When he was littler he'd had smaller furniture -- real-kid size furniture, in bright plastic, green and red and yellow, all his favorite colors.

Now he was too big for his old chair and coloring table. So he had to use this dumb grownup-size chair and dumb grownup-size table instead. The whitecoats acted like it was so great when he had to get rid of his old stuff, like it was some big awesome thing, but it just sucked.

It was nice getting a new table that was all clean on top, not scribbled on, but his old stuff had been so much better.

Ari kept coloring until he heard the hiss of a door opening not very far away. Someone really _was_ coming to visit him. He put down his crayon and just listened. Doctor Harrison was always trying to teach him how to be patient and sit still. He could practice right now.

He sat very still and listened as someone came walking down the hall, then as the door behind him hissed open, and then as someone knocked hesitantly. Sounded to him like just another yucky old scientist who wanted to look at him, make sure he was really a kid, not some kind of alien.

But then a familiar voice spoke, and it sounded exactly the same as he remembered -- just like it always used to, when Ari was little.

"Hey, kiddo."

Ari knocked over his chair when he scrambled up and went barreling towards the door, but who cared about the lousy old chair?

"_Dad_!" he shouted, even though the whitecoats _hated_ it when he was loud. Who cared about _them_?

Ari's dad was back.

* * *

Jeb didn't feel a thing.

Or -- to be more precise, he didn't know what to feel.

The last time he'd seen Ari, he'd been sleeping, the night before Jeb left with the flock. Ari had been barely three then, and now he was just a few months away from six.

"When did you get so _tall_?" he said. Somehow, while Jeb wasn't there, Ari had gone from toddler to gangly teenager.

Jeb hadn't thought he'd miss so much of Ari's life while he was gone -- he hadn't really _thought_ at all before running off and leaving him here, and therein lay the problem.

"Dunno," Ari mumbled into the front of Jeb's shirt.

What hurt was how _normal_ it felt -- sometimes Jeb had had to work a little late, back before he'd left with the flock, but he'd always tried to make it home before Ari's bedtime. Coming home had been his favorite part of the day.

Ari had met him at the door, he remembered -- usually with Harrison not far behind him. (Back when Jeb had trusted her -- a long time ago.) He'd ask for a bedtime story, sometimes before Jeb had even made it inside.

"When are you gonna leave?" Ari asked.

"I'm not," Jeb told him.

"Good. I'd miss you," he said, his arms still wrapped around Jeb's chest. "You were gone a long time."

"I know." He ruffled Ari's hair. "I... some things came up and it took me a while to get done with everything. But I'm back now."

Christ, it was all so familiar-seeming -- as if nothing had changed since the last time Jeb saw him. And yet everything was different -- Ari was so much _older_.

_Does he even remember me_? he wondered for a moment, then reassured himself that Ari did. He had to.

"I didn't think you were coming back," he said.

"I had to come back." He hugged Ari extra tight for a moment. "You're here, right?"

"Right." Ari giggled. "I think I am."

"I think you are too."

For just a moment, Jeb allowed himself to think that maybe things could be all right again. Maybe there was hope.

And maybe the moon was made of blue cheese.

"Ari," he began, feeling his way to the right words, or something like them. "I'm sorry I was gone so long."

"'S OK," Ari said, sounding far too matter-of-fact, too adult, too unlike the son Jeb had left behind.

_Can you ever forgive me_?

He couldn't say he'd never leave, so he tried to get close.

"I'm right here," he said, falling back on words that weren't quite right, trying to express things he couldn't quite say aloud.

"Don't go," Ari muttered, and the illusion of a gawky teenager vanished. He might look far older, but Ari was still a very young boy.

"I won't," Jeb promised.

"Good." He sniffled a little, leaned his head against Jeb's chest.

For all that he'd been gone almost three years, Ari's mannerisms were still the same, and he still remembered them. He knew them well -- they were engraved on part of his heart, it felt like, as if he could never forget them.

In his mind, Jeb had all but buried Ari a long time ago -- now he was trying, slowly, to convince himself that his son wasn't dead at all, but alive. Alive, and right here with him.

There were so many things Jeb had meant to do for his son -- teach him to read, teach him to write, every little thing he'd dreamt of doing. Ari should be in school right now, not locked up here. He'd wanted to do that for him too -- watch him grow up enough that Jeb could let him go.

And someday, Jeb meant to introduce Ari to his little sister.

There was going to be time for that, Jeb promised himself. There would be time to make things right between the two of them. There had to be.

If there wasn't, he would damn well _make_ time.

Jeb was a rational man, but he'd do anything -- anything -- for his son. Because his son was _alive_, and that... right now that meant the world to him.


	70. Situation Normal

Chapter Seventy: Situation Normal (All Fucked Up)

The way Harrison saw it, Prescott was trying to put the boy in quarantine. Kyle had had very slim authorization to see Ari, so it was almost reasonable that he'd been locked out of contact with the boy.

Keeping Ari's own father from seeing him? That was just cruelty, plain and simple.

At first, Harrison had been able to see small justification for the near-lockdown on contact with Ari. His immune system was still delicate -- all personnel who came near him had to use special protective gear, and he had been moved into a special set of isolated rooms. For his own safety, of course.

But Ari had gotten healthier as time passed, and eventually Harrison began to sense something sinister in the way Prescott tried to keep people from seeing the boy.

Getting Jeb in to see Ari had been hard enough, and he was the poor kid's father. Prescott had said quite mildly that the text of the waiver Jeb had signed gave the School the power to deny him his parental rights, and that keeping Jeb away from his son would only do Ari good. Besides, it had been almost a year since Jeb arrived back at the School, and not once during that time had he so much as asked how Ari was doing.

Harrison had lost her patience with the man.

"Well, I'm giving Jeb permission to visit his son," she said firmly. "It's what's best for Ari."

And she'd left -- she was too polite to mention that the damn waiver had been forged in the first place. Or that she suspected Jeb had been too afraid of Prescott (or too deep in his conviction that his son was dead) to request a visit.

None of them were saints. Prescott was trying to keep a man from his child on very slim grounds. Jeb had been a neglectful father. And she... she'd betrayed Jeb's trust.

It stung to think of it like that, but there it was -- the truth. Jeb had trusted her with the welfare of his only son. And though she'd tried to do what was best from Ari, to protect him as best she could, it seemed that in the end she'd failed.

Jeb had wronged Ari the same way -- had failed to be _there_ when Ari needed him.

There was still time -- that was why she'd pressed so hard to let Jeb see Ari. They couldn't _fix_ everything that had gone wrong, but they could try to move on.

The first step to moving on was at least getting the two of them to _talk_ to each other, and the first step to that was getting the two of them in a room together.

_That_, Harrison could arrange.

It was the best she could do, really -- and she owed it to Jeb as his friend to do what she could for him.

So she did.

* * *

As exhausted from lack of sleep as he was, ter Borcht still knew Marian's 'you've fucked up this time, kid' voice when he heard it.

But he had to smile when he picked up the phone to a very calm voice on the other end -- because he _knew_ she was seething with repressed obscenities.

"Hello, Roland," she said.

"Hello there," he replied, and slipped the phone between his ear and his shoulder.

She was silent for a moment. "I should hope," she said at last, "that both of you are doing as well as I've been told."

"Who needs to know?" he replied lightly.

"I worry about you, you know," she said, and he was satisfied -- when Marian called and used her business voice, it was something of a feat to get her to switch back to her informal voice instead.

"I know you do," he said, _trying _to be patient with her. (Honestly, he was.) "Is there a reason you're calling?" She was lucky to have caught him in the lab at all -- he was never here anymore. Today he'd only stopped by to check on one of Jeb's experiments -- and just his luck, the phone had rung when he was on his way out.

Jeb really should've asked Reilly to do this for him.

"Yes," Marian snapped. "I can't order you to come back to Germany, but I can _ask_ that you return as soon as possible." Which, this being Marian, translated to: _Get back here. Now. If not on the next flight out, then on the one after that._

"Absolutely not," ter Borcht said flatly.

"I'm sorry?" she said, in the no-nonsense tone he knew so well. "Run that by me again. I'm not sure I heard you."

"_No_, Marian -- no, nein, negatory, _not happening_. I'm sorry, but right now, I have to stay here."

"You almost died," she said, her voice sharp-edged with anger. "We need you back."

How those two statements connected, he didn't know. "I'm sorry," he said, trying to let her down as gently as he could. "I _can't_ come back to Germany -- not for a while."

"Why not?"

They'd never _quite_ seen eye-to-eye.

He closed his eyes and didn't shout at her. "Marian. Please understand. I'm still -- dedicated to our project, but right now... right now, my daughter is my first priority. I'm staying here." He paused for a moment. "I'm sorry," he said, "but I have to go."

"Fine," she said before he hung up.

He replaced the phone in its cradle -- Elsa was getting restless, wriggling in his arms.

"Well, that's over with," he told her -- he knew she couldn't understand him, but it seemed to comfort her to hear his voice. Which was understandable, in a way.

She looked up at him, her eyes half-open, and he really had to smile. It might just be leftover hormones messing with his brain, but to him she looked like an angel.

Marian, no doubt, would not approve.

* * *

"Hey, man," Kyle said, sitting down across from Reilly at the table.

"Kyle. How the hell are you?" He would've sounded enthusiastic if he'd kept his eyes on Kyle, not the table.

"Not too bad." He shrugged. "Prescott's trying to get me fired."

"Huh?" This time Reilly actually achieved eye contact.

Kyle rolled his eyes and repeated himself. "Prescott. Is trying. To get. Me fired. You hear me?"

"Yeah." Reilly rubbed at his eyes. "What for?"

"That part I don't know." He yawned. "But I have a feeling I'm not going anywhere anytime soon."

"You better be right," Reilly said. "I'd miss you, man."

"I know you would." He grinned. "Did I tell you what I got reassigned to?"

"Not yet." He looked a little more awake now.

Kyle got up. "I gotta go program some death robots, bitch. See you on the flip side."

Honestly, he'd been waiting the entire conversation to use that line -- and it was worth it, just to know that Reilly was staring at him as he walked away.

Never let it be said that Kyle was mature.


	71. It's Not The End

Chapter Seventy-One: (If It's Not All Right) It's Not The End

Axiom: children are the product of their parents' genetics.

One thing Jeb knew Ari had to have gotten from Connie -- the eyes. Jeb's eyes were blue; she'd said that they were the first thing about him to attract her attention.

And here Ari had ended up with eyes more like his mother's -- hazel.

His stare would've been less unnerving if he'd had his father's eyes -- and even then it would've given Jeb the chills being _watched_ like that. (At least then it wouldn't have reminded him so much of _her_.)

"Ari," he said, just loud enough to catch the boy's attention.

He blinked. "What? I was thinking."

"Just making sure you're still here." Jeb resisted the temptation to reach out and ruffle his hair.

"Where else would I be?" He sounded puzzled, but after a moment where Jeb couldn't think of anything to say, Ari just shrugged and dropped his eyes back to his comic book. (It looked as if the X-Men were foiling yet another of Magneto's evil plans.)

Jeb realized something: he had no idea what the _hell_ he was doing.

Harrison had hunted him down the day before and dragged him out of his lab by the wrist, her eyes almost shining with determination. "You are going to talk to your fucking son," she'd growled when he politely tried to ask just what she thought she was doing.

It was a well-meant gesture and all, but he hadn't been able to suppress the grim thought that the road to Hell was, as they said, paved with good intentions.

And now he was beginning to think; she'd only told him that he had to talk to Ari. She hadn't said about what, or how -- all she'd said was that he had to.

(Well. That and something about how if he didn't she'd kill him herself -- he hadn't quite caught the details, but it sounded painful.)

Fuck it all. Harrison knew Jeb better than he knew himself, and she'd left him stranded without any idea of how to even _start_ fixing his relationship with Ari.

Jeb was not, and never really would be, much good at understanding people and how they worked. But goddammit, Ari was his _son_ -- and as blind as he could be (and had been), Jeb understood that by being gone for so long, he'd permanently damaged the relationship between them.

Despite that, though, he still believed that what had gone wrong could still be made, at least partially, right.

At heart -- underneath the caution and silent refusal to wield the two-edged knife of emotion (it might be a good tool, but so many times it had twisted in his hand, caught him by surprise, and cut him) -- at heart, he was an optimist.

_Someday everything will be fine,_ he reassured himself, watching Ari with his head bent studiously to the pages of his comic book. _Things will work out. They won't be perfect, but we'll get by._

_This is the way it has to be._

Jeb was lost in undiscovered country here, trying to mend what might well be irreparable, but he still hung on to that sense of optimism that had done nothing but get him in trouble.

After all -- it wasn't much, but it was what he had.

* * *

_I have no idea what I'm doing._

For all that Jeb had repeatedly told him "you'll do fine" or "don't worry, I'll be there to help you out"... ter Borcht was still quite lost. (Although you could attribute some of that to the fact that Jeb wasn't even _there_.)

He really hadn't thought this through, had he? Not very well, at least -- or, well, he'd only planned for one possible outcome of the experiment. The one that hadn't happened.

Which, by not happening, had royally fucked all his plans over. Not that he'd have been around to carry them out if it _had_ happened.

Ter Borcht sighed and, for what he guessed was something like the thousandth time, gave thanks that he hadn't stayed in Germany. It wasn't that he doubted the quality of the medical care he'd have gotten back at Itexicon headquarters; what he doubted -- what he _knew_ -- was that he wouldn't have been as happy there.

Here... well, yes, he was far from "home", but he had Jeb -- and he had his daughter.

Marian could be kind when she tried, but somehow -- ter Borcht was sure she wouldn't have let him so much as hold Elsa. Wouldn't have let him say _goodbye_ to his daughter before Marian took her away to --

_To what?_

He had a sinking feeling he knew what.

They'd never been the kind of people to pass up a test subject when one came their way.

Ter Borcht had never really thought about that policy -- then again, it had never been _personal_. He dealt with his subjects, for the most part, before they consisted of multiple cells. At that point they didn't even seem _human_.

The exception to that had been the avian-human recombinants, who had (through what he'd thought was shoddy planning) been acquired as infants -- taken from their parents, in other words.

If Marian had tried to take Elsa from him -- like the avian-human recombinants had been taken from their parents, just like them and for the same kind of purpose...

He'd never have let her take his daughter. Not in a thousand years. Not while he was still alive.

Marian would have thrown a fit over his refusal -- despite the fact that half of Elsa's genes were his, and that he'd carried her in his body for nine months, Marian would've called any sign of attachment to his daughter unprofessional. And probably would've demanded that he hand her over to Itexicon.

Ter Borcht had never really intended to have a family -- he liked bachelorhood, and it rather suited him. And yet... that was beginning to change. As terrifying as fatherhood could be, he was finding that he rather liked it.

It was terrifying, yes, but it was also oddly... fascinating, in a scientific sense. (Which Marian would probably have thought was good -- it meant that a part of him was still "professional", which meant _so_ much to her. Although how she could reasonably expect him to be professional about -- all this -- he didn't know.)

He'd never seen this coming -- he'd been solidly convinced he'd end the experiment dead.

It seemed to be turning out otherwise -- the experiment was over (he'd survived, and Elsa had survived -- somehow), and he wasn't dead. If he were going to die, it would have already happened.

Ter Borcht had expected an ending -- his death, some kind of disaster, something. What he'd gotten instead was a beginning -- Elsa's birth, things continuing almost as always, an absence of disaster.

It was almost liberating. Things that could have been, balanced out by what _was_, here and now -- and it all came out more or less even.

Not what he'd expected, not by a long shot -- but that was why it was an experiment, after all.

He had to laugh at that.

Marian might not disapprove of him after all.

* * *

If you asked Reilly, Kyle had some sort of magic ability to read his moods -- he always knew when Reilly needed cheering up, or when he just needed to be left alone.

This was bullshit, although Kyle didn't mind it.

Reilly just wasn't all that hard to read.

For example -- you could tell when he was in a really bad mood by the kind of music he played.

If he was doing just fine and fuckin' dandy, it was Placebo, Nirvana, and a thousand other bands Kyle couldn't quite tell apart -- and the louder, the better.

When he was in a really bad mood, like today -- it was all the kind of stuff he normally hated. Matchbox 20, Simple Plan, what the hell ever -- it was the kind of shit he'd normally never be caught dead listening to.

Wait. Kyle pressed his ear a little harder to the door. Reilly's little shitbox stereo had terrible sound _quality_, but it did have _sound_.

Was that...

He sighed and stepped away from the door. _I need to conduct an intervention. Right now._

He knocked on the door -- once, twice, three times for luck. "Reilly? It's Kyle. I'm coming in."

There was a quick shuffle of noise on the other side, and the music faded (well, good riddance, the last thing Kyle needed right now was some guy talking at him about being crazy to a musical background). "All right, fine," Reilly snapped.

Well, at least he was talking.

Kyle went inside.

Reilly was sitting on the edge of the bed, running one hand through his hair, looking as if he'd as soon bite Kyle's head off as look at him. Kyle suspected that until he knocked on the door, Reilly had been sprawled out on the bed listening to music -- the stereo was at arm's length from the bed, and there were a few CDs in their jewel cases next to it.

"What the hell is it?" Reilly said. He'd have sounded more threatening if his shirt had been buttoned, or if he hadn't generally looked like he'd just crawled out of bed.

_Fucker's wearing my shirt, too_.

Kyle had been wondering where that particular shirt had gotten to.

He shrugged. "Just wanted to say hi."

Reilly leveled an acidic glare at him -- _if looks could kill_. "Was it necessary to barge into my room?"

"Yeah." He shrugged. "I gave you fair warning."

"The hell you did." Well, he hadn't gotten physical yet. That was a good sign. He rolled his eyes. "What are you really after?"

_I heard depressing music coming from your room, so I knew I had to come remind you I exist._

"I wanted to look at your pretty face," Kyle replied.

Reilly laughed -- or made a sound resembling a laugh, anyway. "Yeah. Sure. Well, you've had your look -- you can get _out_ now."

"I don't think I will." He leaned against the wall, pretended to study Reilly's features. "Just wanted to make sure you were hangin' in there, man."

Reilly sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah, I guess I am. Things are fuckin' crazy lately."

"I know it," Kyle muttered.

Reilly looked him in the eye -- and maybe things weren't as bad as Kyle had thought they were, because he managed a smile. "Yeah? Tell me what's up."

It looked like things might be getting better for Reilly -- if things were really bad he'd have met Kyle at the door with a kind request that he fuck off, or he'd have been passed out in bed, practically comatose.

Kyle sighed. "Man, I dunno where to _start_."

Reilly cracked up. "Sit down. And start at the beginning, fuckup."

_That tends to be a good place to start._

He sat down next to Reilly on the bed. "I'll tell you what's up with me if you tell me what's up with you, all right?"

"Deal." Reilly flashed him a thumbs-up.

_That was too easy._

Well, then again, maybe things were just going well with Reilly for once.

That would be a change.


	72. Call Me Home

Chapter Seventy-Two: Call Me Home

"Thank you for coming down to see me, Reilly."

As always, Prescott's voice was calm -- Reilly suspected he'd sound exactly the same ordering a double cheeseburger and fries as he would ordering the destruction of Alderaan.

"No problem."

"I understand that your current project is nearing an end."

_I've only been giving you progress reports every week, asshole._

"Yes, sir. We're getting ready to send the, uh, hardware up to New York for some further refinement and testing."

Prescott nodded, then picked up a pen and tapped the desk with it a few times. "Good," he said finally. "Let me know when they send you their results. I have some clients who've expressed interest in this project."

"Cool."

He might as well just be the target of a monologue, for all that he was contributing to the conversation.

Prescott cleared his throat, set the pen down. "I've been asked to inform you of your reassignment to a new project. I wasn't the one who asked that you be reassigned, mind you. Dr. Johnson -- I think you know him? -- asked specifically that, as soon as you were free, I arrange for you to do some work with him."

The only Dr. Johnson he was familiar with was Eli... and OK, so he wasn't all that familiar with the guy at all. But that was the only Dr. Johnson Reilly knew of.

Whatever.

"That's cool," he muttered.

"Thank you, Reilly," Prescott said softly. "You'll start immediately -- Dr. Johnson's lab is in the restricted section of the Animal Testing building." His lips twitched into a small smile, or something like it. "Your security clearance has been updated to reflect that as of this morning. You should have no trouble getting into the restricted section. Dr. Johnson will meet you there."

It was like he was reading off of fucking cue cards.

"Great." Reilly nodded -- it seemed like Prescott was almost done with him. Thank you, Jesus. "Am I allowed to know where Dr. Batchelder's going to be reassigned to?" Yeah, as _if_ -- but it was worth asking. The one thing you could rely on with Prescott was that he was a giant douche -- maybe this time he'd be a douche in Reilly's favor, though.

"Yes, as a matter of fact." (_Score!_) His eyes flicked downward to his notes. "As the primary original designer of the avian-human recombinants, he'll be consulting with you periodically." He looked up at Reilly. "As far as his new main project..." Again, that twitchy forced smile. "That's classified."

Well, things had turned out partially in his favor, at least.

"It's cool," Reilly said, and shrugged.

Prescott kept the smile. "Didn't I just tell you I changed your security clearance?"

"Yes, sir, you did." Normally Prescott just seemed like an average dickhead boss. But sometimes... Reilly could've just strangled him. Fucker. Was it necessary to _toy_ with people like that?

"I thought so." He broke eye contact for a moment, right before the instant when it would've gotten creepy. Dickhead or not, he had a fluent grasp of body language -- Reilly guessed that he knew at least eighty ways to piss someone off without saying a word. Maybe more. "Dr. Svensen -- I think you're familiar with her? -- has had to leave us quite suddenly. Dr. Batchelder will be taking her place as primary supervisor of the human-lupine recombinants."

He glanced briefly down at his notes and smiled. "The Erasers, as they're commonly known."

_I know that, douchebag._

Reilly returned the smile (with extreme prejudice, if such a thing was possible). "Cool."

Prescott looked at him with the same mild, inoffensive expression that he wore so often. "Is there any reason you're interested in the location of Dr. Batchelder's reassignment?"

Reilly shrugged. "Nah, just curious."

Prescott kept looking at him for a moment, calm as a cat that knows where the cream is kept. "Understandable," he said, finally looking away. "That's all the business I have with you, unless you have something more to add."

Reilly shook his head. "No, sir."

"Then I'm done with you."

Christ, but his eyes were unnerving when he just _watched_ you like that. Clearly, the man had missed his calling -- he'd been meant to be an interrogator, or something else terrifying.

It didn't occur to Reilly until he was in the hall outside Prescott's office -- what was going to happen to Ari? He could've asked -- Prescott would've known.

Reilly dismissed the thought. Ari would be fine.

* * *

It's that voice, calm and smooth and soothing as a hand brushing the hair from your forehead (and if only there had been someone to do that for you -- if only the man who fathered your child could have been here with you) -- it's that voice that tugs you out of the grey tiredness that washes over you.

Marian's voice.

"Roland? Roland, can you hear me?"

You force your eyes open. You're tired and aching, but awake. You would sit up to bring yourself closer to the eye level of the woman standing at your bedside, but your head is spinning -- and you are so, so tired.

"Marian?" Your voice is drowsy, weak.

"I'm here," she says, her voice full of false warmth.

"I'm fine." There are higher priorities than your own well-being. "Where's my daughter?"

Marian smiles, sad and oh-so-graceful, and pats your hand. "That's why I came to talk to you. I'm sorry, Roland, but you have to remember -- it isn't _yours_. You may feel like it is, but that will pass. It belongs to Itexicon."

The cold, logical part of you hears and understands her -- but the hot-blooded, emotional part of you refuses to believe what she's telling you.

"Please let me see her," you say, imploring. Perhaps Marian will forgive you a messy show of emotion this once -- you've just been through emergency surgery following a grueling months-long experiment. You're probably excused a little sentimentality.

"I'm sorry," she repeats, "but I can't let you do that."

"Marian," you say, and it's _hard_ to keep the pathetic desperation you're feeling out of your voice. "Let me see her. Just once."

"All its vital statistics have been recorded," Marian tells you, her hand still resting on yours as if she's your friend. "It's in perfect health."

This is your _daughter_ you're discussing -- the daughter you nearly died to have. The least Marian can do is give her a little respect -- she's your little girl, not an experimental animal. She has a name -- Elizabeth Anna ter Borcht -- not a number, and she is _yours_.

This rush of sudden protectiveness is almost surprising -- but every hormone rushing through your body right now is designed to make you feel this way. In a sick way, this is absolutely normal.

You force yourself to sit upright, and for a moment the pain in your gut cuts right through the painkillers flooding your system. This is more important, though.

"I need to see her." To hold her, just once. To say goodbye to her.

"I can't let you," Marian says, and her voice is distant and cold. "I'm sorry -- believe me, I'm sorry -- but that's just the rule. I can't break the rules, Roland -- not even for you."

You want to say something -- to persuade Marian to take your side. But you know, in the end, she's right.

You have absolutely no idea how to take care of a child, and besides -- your daughter owes her existence to an experiment conducted and sponsored by Itexicon. Not only that, but before you even went into surgery, you signed away your rights as potential parent. For her protection.

Your daughter is Itexicon's property, whether or not you like it.

You're reminded of the avian-human recombinants -- something like this happened to their parents. Did they regret what they'd done? They must have -- not to regret such a drastic action as giving up your _child_ seems downright inhuman.

Marian smiles sadly -- she must see on your face that you've reached a decision -- and it's the first sign of true emotion she's shown so far. "I can tell you this, Roland." She pats your hand. "You have a beautiful daughter."

But she isn't yours. Cannot be yours.

She belongs to Itexicon now, if she belongs to anyone.

Didn't Marian just tell you so?

* * *

Ter Borcht was awoken by a knock on the door.

The first thing he did was check to be sure that Elsa was still asleep -- and _then_ he answered the door.

"Jeb? What is it?" Ter Borcht couldn't discern any specific emotion on his face -- it might as well have been a mask.

"Is Elsa sleeping?" His voice was calm and measured -- almost resigned.

"She was." He crossed his arms. "Is there a problem?"

Jeb adjusted his glasses -- the first real sign of emotion he'd shown -- and said, his voice still flat and quiet, "He's gone."

"Who?" There was only one person ter Borcht knew of whose disappearance would put Jeb in such a state. He didn't raise his voice. "_Ari_?"

He nodded. "Yes."

"I'm sorry," ter Borcht said, unable to think of better words. _Sorry_ didn't begin to cover it, he knew that much. "Jeb -- I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," Jeb said, with a crooked little smile and a small forced laugh.

He looked... almost _lost_, and ter Borcht couldn't find the words, in English or in German, to console him -- what should he say? What could he do?

Perhaps... Jeb might be fine on his own this time.

Ter Borcht hesitated for a moment, then said, "If you need me -- I'm here."

Jeb smiled, and it looked a little less forced, a little more natural. If he wasn't all right now -- he would be. Ter Borcht might have to take it on faith for the moment, but he was going to be _fine_. "Thank you."


	73. Your Best Shot

Chapter Seventy-Three: Your Best Shot

"Hello. You must be Beauregard Reilly. I'm Eli."

The first thing Reilly noticed about the man who greeted him at the entrance to the restricted section was his accent -- a butter-smooth deep-South accent that softened r-sounds and elongated vowels. He knew that accent well -- it had taken him until his sophomore year of college to get rid of it entirely.

Reilly returned _Eli's_ expectant smile. "Yes, I'm Reilly. I _thought_ you were Dr. Johnson when I saw you waiting out here."

His smile faded just a little. "Call me Eli, please -- 'Doctor' sounds so formal."

Reilly nodded politely. "All right." It was like going back in time to when he'd been surrounded by those silky accents all day, every day.

For the sake of a job, though, he could put up with it.

"That'll be just fine, then." He turned and started walking down the corridor.

Doctor Johnson's lab was surgically clean, full of machines Reilly couldn't remember ever having seen before. And that he was going to wind up using at some point, more likely than not.

Eli put his back to the counter, crossed his arms, and grinned at Reilly. "I'm guessing you're wondering why I asked for you to be reassigned down here."

"That's right, Eli." Reilly hesitated to use his new boss' first name right off the bat, but it seemed like what he wanted. If you wanted to keep your job, you did what the boss wanted.

"I've been keeping up with the work you were doing with Dr. Batchelder."

He frankly wasn't surprised by that -- mad scientists, hey. It was best not to ask just _how_ someone got their information here; you might not want to know.

Like spies.

"What about it caught your interest?" Some part of it had to have, or he wouldn't have asked that Reilly work with him.

Or maybe he was just a sadist. At a place like this -- you always had to take that factor into account.

"You were the one responsible for analyzing your results, correct?" He had a searching look in his eyes for a moment.

"For the most part, yeah." Jeb hadn't done a whole hell of a lot besides throw ideas at Reilly in the first place.

"Excellent. I thought that might be the case. That's why I asked for the opportunity to work with you -- you seem to have a talent for data analysis."

"Thanks, Eli," Reilly said, wondering: _would he be talking to me this way if I were his colleague, not just a lab technician_? Technically a 'lab assistant' in that case, but it was six of one, half dozen of the other. "So... what do you want me to do?"

"In short? You're going to be helping me construct a database of information relating to the avian-human recombinants," Eli reeled off. "The experimental group is due for a check-in soon, and we need to have a baseline to judge their development against. _So_, that means I'm going to be conducting a battery of tests on the control group to get that baseline data. Oh -- and this is where you come in -- and simultaneously we'll be collating data from the past for both groups."

Eli grinned. "That answer all your questions?"

_Wow, infodumps happen in real life_.

And frankly -- it was Reilly's fanboy dream.

He nodded. "Yeah. Sounds great. When do I start?"

"Right now." He clapped Reilly on the back. "Let's get cracking."

* * *

Ter Borcht held his tongue on his worries for Jeb -- no matter that he'd be spending most of his morning talking to what seemed to ter Borcht to be werewolves, he was going to be fine.

"Be back by ten," he said firmly. "I have business to take care of."

"All right." There was a hint of a smile on Jeb's lips. "I'll be on time."

He'd better be -- ter Borcht needed to make amends with Marian before it was entirely too late, and it would be difficult to do that with a squalling infant in his arms.

"I'll see you then." He leaned in closer, kissed Jeb on the cheek. "Good luck."

"Thank you."

Ter Borcht watched him go, walking off down the hall. This was a daily routine for him, bidding Jeb goodbye in the mornings, and it had been for months.

And yet today he had a strange feeling of foreboding, as if something terrible awaited them.

He shook it off, turned, and went back inside, shutting the door partway behind him. Although he felt fine, he was technically still supposed to limit his daily activities so as not to stress himself too much. Which restriction, though he understood its purpose, was starting to get irritating, as well as boring.

He didn't resent spending time with his daughter -- what he resented was being caged here, unable to leave. _That_ was beginning to wear thin.

Elsa had been dozing, but now began to stir and whimper -- he took her up in his arms, murmuring to her in a quiet, even voice.

"Ssh -- hush, I'm not going anywhere. I won't leave you, I promise." His voice had the soft, half-melodic cadence of words spoken to soothe, not for their meaning.

This he did not regret -- she fascinated him, and that went beyond the fierce love he felt for her.

Ter Borcht had never really worked with children -- or infants -- before, even counting the avian-human recombinants.

He had only really ever seen the results of the tests that were run on them, the recorded effects of the drugs, chemicals, and assorted therapies tried on them -- and therefore they had never seemed like individuals to him. All they were to him was separate files in the folder concerning that project.

They hadn't seemed _real_, either -- he had never seen any of them face to face, though he'd occasionally imagined what they might look like. The data he dealt with regarding them was real enough, but there was something very different about data as compared to holding a child in your arms.

And he had only ever dealt with data, in the case of the avian-human recombinants -- other people had been responsible for raising them, so far as they had been raised. Data had been enough for him -- he hadn't wanted anything more.

In a sense, Elsa, just like the avian-human recombinants, was the subject of an experiment he was conducting. Her case, though, was very different from theirs -- for one thing, he'd been more physically involved. (Hah. To say the least. Ter Borcht wasn't very sure that he'd ever quite recover, and during the last weeks he'd barely made it through the days sometimes, praying for it all to end.)

And for another, she was his _daughter_ -- his flesh and blood -- and for that reason she meant more to him than any of his experiments ever had. Those experiments had only involved his mind, never his heart.

Ter Borcht continued talking in a soft voice. To him it seemed as though Elsa had begun to fuss and fret when he'd left her, though it had only been for a moment.

It made him think how very little he knew -- he'd insisted on learning something about how to take care of his child, and yet there was still so much he didn't know.

In a way it reminded him of med school -- memorization and seemingly endless effort. Although at least this time he didn't have to stumble through the obstacles thrown up by his, at the time, still-clumsy English.

He could almost hear Marian speaking to him now -- _Roland, what in the world could make you think that you are at all capable of taking care of a child?_

He knew all his faults. Intimately. He was clumsy, he'd never been fond of children, he had trouble focusing, he was prone to depression, and he had less than no idea of how to raise a child at all.

Yet he was determined to make things work out -- for Elsa's sake, and to prove Marian wrong.

Maybe that was petty. In all likelihood, it was. But without determination, he'd never have gotten where he was in the first place.

He sat down on the bed. The phone call with Marian was _not_ going to be a pleasant one, more likely than not.

But he wasn't making it now -- and he wouldn't be making it yet for a while. (He knew she'd still be at her office, though it was getting late in Germany. They'd been a pair of workaholics once.)

"I'm sorry if I've failed you," he said, keeping his voice soft and half-crooning. "I'm trying my best."

Things could have been worse -- he remembered something Reilly had said in passing once, when ter Borcht had come to him for a shoulder to lean on, not wanting to bother Jeb _again_.

"You'll do fine," Reilly had said, sounding faintly amused. "Jeb is good with kids. And you want to be a good dad, so at least you're _trying_."

They'd never spoken of it again -- but it had been nice to get some reassurance nonetheless.

Ter Borcht cradled his daughter close against his chest, listening to her quiet breathing.

As frightened of the future as he sometimes was -- he was certain that everything would turn out for the best.


	74. Fire In The Sky

Chapter Seventy-Three: Fire In The Sky

"Dr. ter Borcht? You there?"

The man in question stopped leafing through the journal he had been reading. "Who wants to know?"

"It's Reilly. Can I come in?"

Ter Borcht was not, in any sense of the word, decent. Despite the relative chill, he was bare to the waist, lying on the bed propped on a pillow with his daughter dozing on his chest. He'd been reading a medical journal, but now he put it down, folding the corner of the page over to mark his place.

Given that it was Reilly calling, he had no reason to pretend modesty -- though the boy was practically a stranger, he'd assisted in performing major surgery on ter Borcht not too long ago.

_It had better be damned important._ "As long as you make it fast," he said, laying one hand gently across Elsa's back and trying not to feel exposed.

To his credit, Reilly didn't act as if there were anything out of the ordinary -- he was still quite young, but to ter Borcht it seemed he'd already developed a mask of quiet professionalism and confidence. And a good sense of when to keep his mouth shut, which he was displaying right now.

"Is there a problem?" said ter Borcht.

"Not as such."

"If there isn't a problem, you can kindly get the hell out," ter Borcht said, keeping his voice low and even. "I'm busy."

Reilly ran a hand through his hair and forced a laugh. "There's not a problem _as such_ -- I just... Well. Dr. Prescott is, like, totally uninterested, but I thought maybe I should just come check up on y'all, and I couldn't get away from work until just now." He stuffed his hands into the hip pockets of his blue jeans, pausing for a brief breath. "That's all."

If you looked at the situation, there _was_ a problem -- ter Borcht really ought to be in a proper hospital, not home in bed. But Prescott had deemed him fit to "discharge" after only a very brief period of recovery -- not that he was complaining.

He closed his eyes. Despite that Reilly had seen him in worse condition, it still disquieted him to... show off his body like this.

"I'm fine, Reilly," he said, reopening his eyes. "Now would you kindly _go_?"

"OK, fine," Reilly said. "See you later."

He closed the door behind him.

Ter Borcht searched for his glasses with one hand. It occurred to him that he'd probably been a little short with Reilly -- verging on rude, even.

His hand closed around the bow of his glasses. He found himself more and more short-tempered lately -- moodier in general. Troubling. Perhaps he had a more serious problem than he'd thought.

He slipped his glasses onto his face. It was getting late -- had he eaten yet today?

Jeb hadn't been back yet, which was unusual. He practically doted on ter Borcht -- it was endearing, in a way, how he was so concerned. Slightly irritating, but mostly endearing.

He closed his eyes, not willing to get up just yet, focusing on the heartbeat he felt speeding under his hand -- faster than an adult's, and yet this was a normal sleeping rhythm for her.

If nothing else it was a familiar, comforting thing to focus on -- he still couldn't shake that sense of foreboding, the feeling that something had gone wrong, and he just didn't know it yet.

* * *

_I feel like a goddamned secretary._

"These files are in gruesome condition," Eli had said (and his accent made "gruesome" sound like some fancy European liquor), and that was the truth.

The records of the avian-human recombinants' lives were spread through approximately ninety billion file cabinets, in which they were stored according to an equal number of conflicting filing systems. The very early test results were almost impossible to find, and it was only through luck and application of elbow grease (and the acquiring of a few paper cuts) that Reilly recovered them at all.

But after trials and tribulations, he and Eli had recovered every extant file referring to the avian-human recombinants' growth and development. All twelve of them -- which, over nearly twelve years of study on the part of one group and ten on the part of the other, added up to a metric _fuckton_ of paper.

Obviously, saving the rainforests was a bit less important than supersoldiers.

So they'd located the files -- but they weren't cross-referenced, and almost none were digitized.

Which was why Reilly felt like a secretary today. Simply scanning the files in had been impossible (of course it had, knowing his luck), so he'd wound up typing them in by hand.

If you looked at it one way, all the data recorded about the avian-human recombinants was passing through Reilly's hands, presenting huge opportunities for him.

And if you looked at it the other way, he was performing shitloads of data entry a day -- mundane, clerical work. The kind of stuff he was used to letting computers do for him.

Kyle seemed sympathetic, though, which was nice. He'd helped Reilly ice his wrists after the first day, and this morning he'd offered to give Reilly a hand massage after dinner in his room.

It was pretty strange, actually -- Kyle wasn't normally so nice. Telling Reilly to suck it up and get used to it (_pain builds character, y'know?_) would've been more his speed. Not as if Reilly minded the whole nice thing -- it was just... unusual.

There were a lot of unusual things in Reilly's life lately, though.

Doctor ter Borcht, for one thing -- Reilly had gotten used to him being kind and patient, not... whatever he'd been this morning.

Admittedly, Reilly _had_ walked in on the guy shirtless -- but he _had_ knocked, and ter Borcht _had_ let him in.

Maybe he was just having a bad day.

He'd looked fairly content, though -- lying in bed with a good book.

Little Elizabeth looked healthy as well -- damn cute kid, too. Reilly had never liked kids, but for her he made an exception... which made sense, given that he'd helped deliver her and all.

There were days when Reilly hated his job, and wished he were anywhere but here.

Today (though it had been at intervals both tedious and bizarre) -- today wasn't one of those days.


	75. Friction

Chapter Seventy-Five: Friction

"Fuck, I've missed coffee."

"I'll drink to that. Cheers." Kyle lifted his mug in a mock toast.

"Cheers."

For a miracle, they were the only people in the cafeteria, even though it was two in the morning, normally a peak hour for night shift.

Fuckin' weird.

"So what brings you here?" No matter how innocently he meant it, the phrase still rang in Kyle's ears like a bad pickup line. _I may not be Fred Flintstone, but I can still make your bed rock._

Ter Borcht eyed him for a moment, then set down his mug (on which faded letters proclaimed something in German). "Couldn't sleep."

"I hear that." Kyle drank from his own mug, which looked brand new next to ter Borcht's. "I'm in between projects."

"Mmm." Ter Borcht wrapped his hands around his mug, covering whatever was written on it.

"What's your mug say?"

He raised his eyebrows, then glanced down at the mug, taking his hands off it. "A friend gave it to me when we were in college. 'Future doctors unite'." He shrugged. "I've had it ever since."

"So you brought it here?" Kyle winced. Despite what his teachers had said, there _was_ such a thing as a dumb question. Example A: the one he just asked.

"Nah, it just appeared." Ter Borcht snorted. "Yes. The mug and a few books. Other than that -- clothes."

"Reminds me of college," Kyle muttered, regretting the tragic loss of his brain-to-mouth filter. College is a _bitch_.

"Ah."

Kyle sipped his coffee. "You want another cup?"

Ter Borcht shook his head. "I'm fine."

He nodded, and then something occurred to him. "So where's, uh--"

Ter Borcht cut him off mid-sentence (thankfully saving Kyle from trying to remember what the hell he'd named his daughter). "I left her with Jeb."

"She must be real cute if she looks like you."

He looked surprised for a moment. "Is that a compliment?"

Kyle shrugged. "Uh... sure." _I'm such a dumbass_.

He didn't have a lot of rules (other than _don't get caught_) but high on the short list was a simple maxim: _don't hit on anyone who's already taken._

Then again, everything he'd done in high school probably already had him a first-class ticket to hell, so what was it worth, really?

"Then thank you."

Kyle glanced at his watch. "It's been great, but... I gotta run."

You never would have known, just looking at him, but ter Borcht was a _master_ of the deadpan. "Peace."

"Yeah, peace out," Kyle said, and then he beat feet.

* * *

"Thanks for staying so late."

"No problem. Cheers, Eli."

They tapped their glasses together and drank.

Reilly turned back to the console he was sitting in front of and keyed in a brief command.

Eli took another sip. "So remind me what your program does?"

He spun in his chair. "Well, it's not _mine_, but basically it's collating all the recorded data on the avian-human hybrids. Should be done in a few hours."

Eli grinned. "Good work, Reilly." He refreshed both their glasses.

"You can call me Beau."

He glanced up. "Pardon?"

Reilly rubbed the bridge of his nose with his free hand. "Beau, as in Beauregard. It's my real name."

Eli nodded and smiled. "Then it's been a pleasure working with you, Beau, and I hope we can continue our association for a long time to come."

Being on first-name terms with his boss was... pretty awesome, Reilly decided, as the computer hummed quietly away behind him (it wasn't actually doing the heavy processing work, the School's servers were, but there was still something visceral about the hum of a computer that indicated 'hey, you mind, I'm doin' fuckin' work here'). Prescott, being a dicksock, had never referred to him by name, and Jeb, even though he'd never actually been Reilly's boss, had only ever called him by his last name.

You could probably chalk all of that up to the fact that on a normal basis, Reilly _hated_ his first name. Too goddamn hicktastic. Having to introduce himself as _Beauregard_ made him feel like he was wearing a sign that said "Hi, I'm from Buttfuck Nowhere, the Deep South".

Except this time, when it wasn't some random Yankee he was introducing himself to -- it was someone his parents might have grown up just down the street from.

For all Reilly knew, Eli and his aunt Cissy had played kick-the-can together as kids. It wasn't like he made a habit of remembering anyone from his hometown (except Kyle). They weren't worth it, and he'd never see them again.

He felt the impulse to shudder (_goose must've walked over my grave_, _I guess_), but suppressed it. No reason to spill on himself.

"I hope so too, man," Reilly said.

Eli chuckled, then inhaled deeply. "You're familiar with Dr. Batchelder?"

_Everyone is by now._ He shrugged. "Yeah, we talk sometimes."

He raised his eyebrows. "Beau... I'm sure you know this, but -- shotgun weddings rarely end well. Give the doctor my warmest regards, won't you?"

Reilly glanced down at his drink. "No problem, Eli."

He knew what Eli was getting at, though an actual wedding hadn't been involved -- the saying back home was _marry in haste, repent at leisure_. He had better hopes for Jeb than that, though. Poor man deserved a better hand from fate than that.

* * *

Overhead the stars were emerging from thin clouds, but ter Borcht didn't spare them a glance as he walked between the buildings -- it was well past midnight, and though he wasn't tired, he needed to come home.

The hallway was dim and silent, and he stifled a yawn with the back of his hand as he opened the door. Perhaps he'd be able to sleep now; it would be a relief.

Jeb was sprawled across the bed, the picture of exhaustion. He seemed to be working himself ragged lately.

Ter Borcht eased the door shut behind himself; it had a tendency to slam when you weren't looking.

Elsa was asleep as well, clutching a corner of her blanket in one hand. She, on the other hand, was doing fine.

Everything seemed to be at peace, and ter Borcht relaxed as he kicked off his shoes and undressed. Often he worried that if he left something bad would happen, either to Elsa or to Jeb, but it seemed tonight he'd gotten lucky.

Ter Borcht sat down on the edge of the bed. Jeb's hair was a mess; he had a tendency to toss and turn before he fell asleep. He'd apologized for it until ter Borcht informed him that it didn't matter either way (and as a matter of fact, he found it quite endearing).

His hair was soft, too, no matter how long he'd gone without washing it -- ter Borcht ran his fingers through it, idly playing with the individual strands.

Jeb stirred, then drew his outspread limbs back towards his torso. His eyes opened halfway. "Shouldn't you be sleeping?"

"I should be."

He brought one hand up to rub his eyes. "Come here." He grabbed ter Borcht by the shoulder and pulled him down onto the bed.

There was a brief flurry of blankets as Jeb pulled the covers over both of them, then silence as Jeb slipped his arms around ter Borcht's chest.

"You are an _octopus_," ter Borcht grumbled, trying half-heartedly to move away from Jeb's hands.

"You like it," Jeb murmured, putting his head on ter Borcht's chest. "Besides. Sleep."

"Yes, doctor." Ter Borcht closed his eyes. He felt the heat of Jeb's body against his bare skin; the cafeteria had seemed so cold and lonely. Quite the contrast against this dark, warm room where he was safe in his lover's arms. "I'll sleep."

"Good."

"Love you too."

This time sleep was waiting for him, and he welcomed it.


	76. Control

Chapter Seventy-Six: Control

"So what do we have?"

"Data," Reilly replied as Eli sat down next to him, straddling the chair and resting his arms across the back. "Lots and lots of data."

"That much is obvious. Tell me what it_ means_, Beau." Eli moved his hand past Reilly's face and tapped the monitor. "What do you see?"

"Compared against human baseline for age and body mass..." He paused, eyes scanning the readout. "All twelve subjects have better reflex response time, more efficient consumption of oxygen, increased strength, decreased weight. Their bones are harder to break, their immune systems respond more quickly and strongly to a threat, and they heal much, much faster than any human."

"That's the positive." Eli sounded like a teacher trying to draw a specific response from a recalcitrant student -- but for once, that patronizing tone didn't piss Reilly off. "What are the negative side effects?"

"Again, for all twelve subjects." He broke off again, more briefly this time. "Heightened immune system response means they're at higher risk of autoimmune disorders. Increased healing speed is due to rapid cell turnover, so they have more risk of cancer, and possible decreased lifespan. They have high metabolisms, so they have to ingest substantial amounts of calories to remain functional on a daily basis." He paused. "On a genetic level, there's evidence that they're very susceptible to spontaneous harmful mutations -- cancer -- but I already mentioned that. And although testing is ongoing, we don't have much data as to the function of some sequences of their DNA, so... they're wildcards."

Eli nodded, smiling. "Very good. Now, can you tell me some differences between the two sextets?"

"The control and experimental groups," Reilly recited, "were raised in identical environments until age ten, at which point the experimental group was removed from the laboratory and transferred into custody of Dr. Jacob Batchelder at a secure location."

"Why age ten? Why not at some other time?"

Reilly touched the bridge of his nose with one finger. "Once the eldest subjects had reached age ten, enough baseline data had been obtained that... somebody felt we could accurately track the development of the experimental group in the wild. Also, substantial disciplinary problems had begun to emerge among the experimental subjects, and Dr. Batchelder lobbied to remove them from the laboratory environment immediately. He stated fears that if they were allowed to remain here, they would cause considerable property damage."

Eli cut him off, patting Reilly on the shoulder. "That's enough. You've clearly done your reading, Beau."

"Thanks, Eli."

Eli laced his fingers together. "So. You've told me about the group as a whole. Tell me about each individual subject."

Reilly didn't even blink. _If this is a test, I'd better pass_. "Which group first? Experimental or control?"

"Oh... let's start with the experimental group."

"We don't have any current data on them," Reilly began.

Eli waved his hand. "That doesn't matter. Tell me about them."

He glanced at the monitor. "The eldest female was in good condition for her age at the time she left, though the same went for her counterpart in the control group. Strong personality, judging by the notes on her health records, and lots of disciplinary problems. Lots of minor scuffles from age five upwards, probably indicating a confrontational outlook. IQ testing puts her just above normal range, but early test results indicated she was emotionally immature. Problems with authority."

Eli nodded. "Go on."

"Second-eldest male... good temperamental match for the eldest female, judging by his personality tests. Reasonably cooperative when alone, but in the company of anyone else in the group, started to withdraw. Fewer disciplinary problems, almost no fights in his record. High likelihood of some cancers and other disorders due to his, uh -- parents come from Ashkenazi Jew and Amish stock, but nothing major has been spotted in him. His IQ tests are high normal as well, but he's more emotionally well-adjusted."

Reilly glanced over at Eli. "Should I continue?"

"By all means."

Reilly scanned the readout. "Next in age is another male. Good all-around health, and boosted immune system seems to have kept him from getting sick. Reduced visual acuity of about 20/200 resulted in attempted correction at a young age, but nothing came of it. If he were a citizen he'd be legally blind. As it is, his other senses seem to have compensated -- hearing, touch, smell, every other sense is more accurate than any of the other subjects. IQ is above normal range, but due to difficulties in testing nobody is sure just how much above. Judging by some of the notes on his records, I'd put his IQ into genius range, possibly, given the level of wordplay, logical competency, and spatial-manipulation skills he shows."

Eli thought for a moment, leaning forward to look at the readout alongside Reilly. Then he leaned back in his chair. "Go on. Tell me about the younger three."

"Next up, young female subject. Uh... health looks good all around, except for adverse reactions to some immunizations as an infant. Personality... outgoing, friendly. Shares a skill with machinery with the blind male; she scored off the charts given a sample hacking test. Similar to the second-oldest male and youngest subject, when isolated she's cooperative, but becomes resistant when in the company of one or more others from the sextet."

Reilly took a breath and glanced over at Eli, who seemed to be entranced.

"Second-youngest subject comes from similar stock as the youngest, and displayed a strong emotional bond to her even though she's not his natural sibling. Affinity for engineering-type tasks, and he seems close to the blind older male. Some defects with the digestive system, but no one tracked it further than possible lactose intolerance. His 'sister'... well, she'll be about six feet tall when she's finished growing, and her early IQ tests are off the charts. No other data was conclusive, since results were just all over the place. Other than that, not much on them."

"Tell me about them as a social group."

Reilly glanced back at Eli, who seemed to be playing the part of... that weird guy, the kind who asks lots of questions. With his little round glasses, his goatee, all that good stuff.

He had to suppress a little nerdy giggle -- he looked like Robert Downey, Jr. in all those pictures Kyle had shown him. ("_That guy_? As Iron Man? Yeah, I don't think so," he'd said, and Kyle had elbowed him in the ribs.)

"Beau?"

"Oh. Yeah." He blinked. "As a social group... the two oldest subjects cooperate, and they seem to direct the actions of the group as a whole. The blind one and the second-youngest tend to associate, but the other two, not so much."

"As a _group_, Beau, please."

"Yeah, sure. Uh... they seem to be a pretty unified group. The two oldest act as leaders, and... everyone else does what they say." Reilly shrugged. "That's all I can really say. I can't tell you what's not in the data."

Eli grinned. "I know. That was a test, Beau, and you passed."

_How typical._ "Thanks."

Eli indicated the screen. "You know firsthand how limited our data is. So let me tell you something -- they'll all be seeing us for a check-in next May. Hopefully. There might be some difficulty getting them all in, but goddammit we'll try."

"That's what she said!" Reilly blurted -- by now, it was a reflex. Fuck you very much, Kyle.

Eli's lips curled into what didn't resemble his earlier grin so much as it resembled the expression on an alligator's toothy face. "Very funny. Beau... how much do you know about Subject Eleven?"

Reilly inhaled. "Uh, in what context?"

"Are you interested in conducting tests to assess its abilities?"

"Yeah, sure." Reilly rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, trying to avoid Eli's creepy stare without being too obvious about it.

He finally blinked. "I've been assigned to Subject Eleven when it arrives. Would you like to assist me?"

"Sure."

Eli nodded, and a faint smile returned to his face -- but there was still that eerie predatory look to it, like a cat stalking its prey. "Good. Very good. Now tell me about the control group."

* * *

"Do you ever get that feeling, like... maybe there's another me? Another us?"

She looked up at him, her blonde hair falling in front of her face; she brushed it aside with one hand. "Nah. What are you, crazy? The world can only handle one of me."

"Probably," he decided. Out of solidarity, his own dark hair was blocking his vision, but he didn't bother to move it. According to him, he liked it that way.

She thought he looked like a sheepdog. A laconic sheepdog with a beagle's sad eyes.

He pursed his lips and scrunched up his face, making the kind of ugly face that the whitecoats used to tell them would stick if they kept doing it. "I just... what if we have twins?"

"They would have told us if we did," she said smartly, crossing her arms.

"What if maybe they didn't?" He sat up straight. "What if--"

"--somewhere out there there's another Cleo and another Shane," she said, finishing his sentence for him. She reached out and ruffled his hair; he jerked away from her. "I don't think your twin would have such a dorky haircut, though."

"It's not dorky," he protested, bringing his hands up to shield his 'do from her invading touch. He grinned and put his hands down. "And if there was another Cleo she'd have cut her hair by now," he said, teasing, and yanked her long braid.

"Hey! Don't touch the hair."

Someone banged on the door once, then pushed it open -- a tall boy with blond hair and thick black-framed glasses.

"Cut it out, would you?" he said. "This is my room too."

Cleo sighed and rolled her eyes. "Fine, Jamie. Shane was being annoying as _usual_," she said, shooting Shane a filthy look. "You two have fun." She slipped past James on her way out of the room, tossing back a final "_Men_".

Out in the living room, Zack was playing video games, while Anna and Kylie were nowhere to be found.

Cleo paused as she walked by Zack. "Hey, where's your sister? Zack?"

He finally looked up long enough to say "Dunno".

"Where's Anna? Didn't she have testing today?"

He nodded, eyes on the screen.

"Thanks a lot."

Anna wasn't in her room, and Kylie didn't know where she was when Cleo asked.

"I wanted to braid her hair, and she said she'd let me," Kylie said, twisting a lock of her own hair (black and curly; Cleo envied it, since you couldn't do much with blonde) on one finger. "But she never came. D'you think she's okay?"

Cleo shrugged. "Yeah, she's fine."

Actually, she had less than no idea where Anna was or how she was doing -- she knew that that morning the five-year-old had been scheduled for testing, but she didn't know what kind or for how long. Hopefully she'd be back already. They never kept her long.

Cleo opened the door to her own room, and sure enough, there was Anna, curled up on the bed with a tattered copy of _The Hobbit_ in one hand. She was asleep, which was unsurprising given that she sported all the indications that today had been an endurance-test day; her wings were out, their tips draping over the sides of the bed, she was wearing a little exercise uniform, and she was fast asleep, which was the surest indicator given that she'd sworn off naps for good at four.

Cleo was about to close the door and sneak back out (if there was one thing she hated it was dealing with a sleepy five-year-old with no one to help), but Anna had the devil's own timing as sure as she had a head of white-blonde hair. She yawned and opened her eyes.

"Hi Cleo."

She made herself smile. "Hi. Why are you in my bed?"

Anna yawned and rubbed her eyes. "I got tired."

"Were they making you run?" Cleo leaned against the doorframe.

She nodded, her curls bouncing. "Uh-huh. Mr. Craig took me outside for playtime 'cause I was good. It's nice and warm."

"See anything interesting?" Despite the humiliation of having to get her news from a five-year-old, Cleo clung to any news of the weather, because she so rarely got to see it.

"There was some birds. And I saw a bunny." She tugged on one strand of her hair. "Can I tell you a secret?"

"Sure."

Anna leaned forward and put one hand by the side of her mouth. "Someone's coming to talk to us."

"What?" And that was what you got for confiding in little kids.

Anna sat back, beaming and kicking her legs back and forth. "It's true! Mr. Craig said. Somebody new is coming to talk to us."


	77. Not Actually A Doctor

Chapter Seventy-Seven: Not Actually A Doctor

"I'm Dr. Johnson. This is my assistant, Dr. Reilly."

The control group looked back at them mistrustfully - it was probably the matching white lab coats that were the problem. Eli had insisted.

The second-oldest male had his arms crossed and eyes narrowed; the other five stood behind him in a loose group.

Eli kept talkng.

"We're here to conduct full physicals on all six of you," he said, "in order to assess the current state of your health."

_So that we can have baseline data in case the experimental group shows up any time soon._

They kept staring. None of the six said a word, though the second-oldest male - Jamie? - recrossed his arms and adjusted his glasses.

"All right then," Eli said briskly. "Dr. Reilly, let's get started."

* * *

There was a knock on the door, and Reilly glanced over, irritated. "Would you get that, please?"

"Certainly, doctor." Eli stood and went to the door.

Reilly focused on taking the boy's pulse, but he couldn't help but hear quiet conversation behind him.

"All right," Eli's voice said quietly. "Yes, I can handle things."

Reilly wrote down the figure - the same as it had been the last time this group had had a physical. What the fuck was going on here?

A hand tapped him on the shoulder, and he turned; no surprise, it was Eli. The door was still open behind him, and a nervous-looking technician (Ryan or Caleb or something) was standing there.

"Doctor, you're needed in the infirmary," Eli said. "I'll take care of everything."

"Thanks," Reilly muttered, and dodged out into the corridor.

"So what's the deal?" he asked the tech as the door hissed shut.

"I don't know." He shrugged. "They need you for some reason. Maybe they're doing a surgery."

_Fuck. I hate surgery._ Nothing was scheduled, though, not that Reilly knew of. Emergency surgery, maybe, though he couldn't think of any subject with bad enough health that that was in the cards.

"Maybe you should have asked," Reilly said as they crossed between buildings. "I like to know beforehand if I'm going to have to scrub in, you know?"

"I tell you, man, I don't know." The tech pushed open the door, and they stepped inside. "They said they can't page you, he should be here, run and get him. Like verbatim that's what they said."

"So who's they?"

"What?"

"Never mind." He'd find out. Probably someone with the power to fire him.

As they approached the infirmary, Reilly picked out an all-too-familiar voice, though he couldn't distinguish individual words.

Whatever had happened, Prescott wasn't happy about it.

"I think I can get there from here."

The tech nodded. "Fair enough." He turned on his heel and walked away.

Jeb's voice was more distinct, even from here. "You said he was fine."

"He was," Prescott snapped. "No one could have foreseen that this would happen."

"So what are we going to do?"

Reilly hesitated, then knocked on the doorframe before stepping inside.

They both turned to look at him.

Typically, Prescott made the first move to drag Reilly into the argument.

"Reilly, you spoke to Dr. ter Borcht after his surgery, correct?"

"Uh, yeah." He scratched the back of his head. "He said he'd be fine, and he is a medical doctor. I trusted his opinion." It had been kind of hard not to, given that the good doctor had seemed to be about two seconds from grabbing Reilly by the lapels and shaking him.

"There." Prescott turned back to Jeb. "Do you see? We couldn't have predicted something like this would happen."

"Standard procedure after abdominal surgery is not a night in the hospital before going home," Jeb said, his voice quiet. "You should have kept him here, even if he thought he was fine."

Reilly peered past the both of them; apparently, Prescott was more concerned with having a catfight with Jeb than with telling Reilly what he was here for.

Ter Borcht was in one of the hospital beds, looking pale and exhausted. There was an IV needle in his hand, and overall he bore a striking resemblance to hell warmed over.

"Uh, what happened here?" Reilly had seen ter Borcht a few times since his surgery, and while he'd looked tired then... right now he looked half dead.

"He collapsed in the cafeteria," Prescott said, "and lost a good deal of blood before we could get him here. Right now, he's unconscious but stable, and I'd thank you not to disturb him."

"You gave him a transfusion?" With these guys, you could never be sure.

Prescott rolled his eyes, and Reilly was tempted to applaud him. _Good show, old bean._ "Yes, of course. Once he regains consciousness I'll check him for concussion."

"And then send him home?" Jeb said dryly.

"Yes," Prescott countered. "On one condition. If anything happens - anything at all - bring him here. He's not out of the woods yet, despite what he appears to think."

That, Reilly thought, was the closest he'd seen Prescott come to being civil with Jeb in a long time. There was a possibility that this was actually his version of playing nice.

How strange.

Something caught Prescott's eye, and he looked over past Reilly.

"If you'll excuse me, doctor," he said, coolly patting Jeb on the shoulder as he turned away.

* * *

Pupillary response normal. Complaint of headache. No other indications of concussion.

"What happened?" ter Borcht rasped.

Prescott glanced up from taking his pulse. "You collapsed in the cafeteria."

Heart rate sixty-eight beats per minute. Pulse easily palpable. Blood pressure in the low normal range.

"I know that much. Why?"

Prescott shrugged. "I'm not certain." He straightened up. "You'll be staying here overnight for observation."

"Why the IV?"

_Doctors make the worst patients._ Prescott straightened the lapel of his lab coat. "You were dehydrated. Now, there's one last thing I need to do - draw some blood."

"Fine." Ter Borcht closed his eyes and extended his arm.

"Any other symptoms?"

He shook his head. "None."

"None? And you're still taking the painkillers."

"Yes."

"Any problems there?"

"None." One thing you could say for him: he was straightforward.

"Your temperature is higher than normal," Prescott noted as he set the vial aside and slipped the hypodermic into the bio-waste bin.

"Yeah?"

"Any... swelling, or feeling of heat around the incision?"

He hesitated before giving an answer; Prescott was getting a bad feeling about this.

"Ah - not that I've noticed, no."

Prescott sighed. "Then I'll need to perform a very quick examination."

"Fine." He shifted his shirt aside.

The skin surrounding the incision was warm to the touch, even compared to the rest of his fevered skin; it had a distinct red flush and the area appeared slightly swollen.

Classic infection.

Prescott pulled ter Borcht's shirt back down. "It would appear you have an infection," he said, and ter Borcht raised his eyebrows.

"I gathered that."

"So," he continued, "I'll be putting you on antibiotics as well as the painkillers you're already on."

"Fine by me." He crossed his arms. "Is that all?"

"Yes."

Straightforward yes; irritating, also yes.

* * *

Reilly had been waiting in the corridor since Prescott shooed him and Jeb out; he wasn't surprised when Prescott came storming out in a huff looking for him. He was predictable, in his own way.

"Reilly," he said. "Run this."

He thrust a vial of blood into Reilly's hand; he took it gingerly between two fingers. Je-_sus_. "What tests?"

"What have you got?" Prescott replied, pretty much the _image_ of the arrogant-fuck doctor who didn't give two shits about the poor suckers that had to run errands for him. "Everything."

"Can I assume this is ter Borcht's?"

"It is."

"Anything specific I'm looking for?" Running literally every test they had would be pointless as well as take too much time and material.

"Well, he's got an infection, but other than that... healthy. Dehydrated, but he's on IV fluids now."

"Great," Reilly said, thankful that Eli had given him something of a crash course in this subject. Before he would've just made it up as he went, and probably gotten someone killed. He'd never wanted to be a... whatever the hell you called someone who looked at blood to see what was fucked up. "I'll check his white count, see if anything else hinky is going on; that sound good?"

"Sounds fine." He patted Reilly on the shoulder. "I'll get a culture going from the infection site, but in the meantime why don't you go get those tests started?"

"My pleasure." He plastered a fake smile on his face and walked off. Running tests with Eli's help was damn hard enough; running them alone (since Eli was no doubt still busy with the avian-human recombinants) would probably vex Hercules.

_Mothers, don't let your boys grow up to be lab technicians._


	78. Kitten Domination

Chapter Seventy-Eight: Kitten Domination

"I think he's trying to hit on me," said Reilly as Kyle handed him a kitten.

Kyle rolled his eyes. "Don't flatter yourself." He would've made more of an impression if he hadn't been lying down on the floor with kittens purring on top of him.

"I'm not, dude," Reilly said (and the presence of a purring striped kitten in his hands kept him from getting too hysterical). "He invited me to dinner."

"So?" Kyle shrugged, dislodging two sleepy kittens, who promptly curled back up in his loose hair. "Maybe he's just lonely. You should give him a kitten or something."

"I don't have any kittens."

"Yeah, you do," Kyle pointed out. "That one right there."

Reilly threw the cat at him – it made a startled noise and attempted to use its wings to slow itself, but instead met a soft landing on the pile of kittens currently covering Kyle's stomach. It turned its eyes up to Reilly, looking sad and adorable, but he ignored it. "Now I don't. And they belong to... whoever. Not me."

"So requisition one for testing on..." He pursed his lips, then continued. "Their effects on negative moods."

"They're _kittens_. Most people like kittens." One was, in fact, trying to climb up the leg of Reilly's jeans at that moment.

"Yeah, so? Gotta test it." Kyle petted the pile of kittens lying on top of him. "And this batch of fuzzy little bastards are supposed to be hypoallergenic, too. Test that."

"Jeb's not allergic."

Kyle stared at him before grinning. "You creeper."

"If he's allergic to cat dander he'd be allergic to Erasers. He's not allergic to Erasers," he said, watching as a tiny black kitten climbed Kyle's hair and curled up on his forehead.

"He works with them, right?"

Reilly bent down and gently pulled the climbing kitten off his leg. "You know this place, man. I think he does, but who can be sure of anything around here?"

"True," Kyle admitted, as the kitten pile undulated on top of him, the tiny balls of cat finding new positions to curl up in and be fuzzy. He sighed. "I'm gonna be _covered _in cat hair."

"I didn't even know we had this many kittens," Reilly said as two more kittens made an attempt at his legs. "I didn't know we had _any _kittens."

"Neither did I until I got reassigned to kitten-guarding duty."

"The hell did you do?" He was familiar with getting put on Eraser duty for being a total dick to Prescott – most people were – but not... kitten duty.

"I asked real nice." He grinned.

"No, really." The kitten scratched at his palm with its tiny, sharp claws, and he put it down on the ground. It scrambled over to Kyle and joined the kitten pile on his stomach.

"That's really what happened, I swear." The kitten pile writhed; Reilly wasn't sure how many kittens were in there, but the pile covered most of Kyle's torso. It looked like he was being eaten by a kitten monster.

"That's a conversation I don't need to have with him," Reilly said, somewhat glumly despite the excess of kittens in the immediate area.

"Dude, he's nothing to be scared of." Kyle paused. "Wait, what conversation?"

"The one about 'why did you invite me to dinner, creepface'."

"Oh, that one." He nodded, petting the kitten pile. Faint mewing filled the air. "But like I said. Why you scared?"

"Because he's acting all creepy about it."

"Yeah? Did he say it's a fuckin' date?" The kittens seemed unaware of the profanity, but did snuggle closer together on Kyle's stomach and chest.

"Uh, not in those terms." Death by kittens. He kind of deserved it.

He probably would have shrugged if he hadn't been semi-engulfed by kitten. "So it's a business dinner. You _do_ think about work sometimes when you're not caught in all this soap-opera bullshit, right?" He sounded almost concerned.

_Go fuck your mom._

"Yeah, man, I'd say so," Reilly said, scooping a rather plain brown kitten off the floor. It promptly bit him, but he took it for affection and held on to the cat.

"You might want to put that down," said Kyle.

"No, look. He likes me." The brown kitten sank its tiny fangs into the meat of Reilly's palm again, then removed them and curled up into a content pile. "Anyway. My job _is_ soap-opera bullshit," he said.

"Really. You gonna tell me a story to go with that?"

"Sure." He shrugged, and the brown kitten emerged from its pile and began an odyssey up the sleeve of his shirt. "So sometimes I run blood samples, y'know? Eli lets me do it by myself 'cause he can't afford to lose any time." He pursed his lips, looking at a point somewhere beyond the nearest wall. "You wanna know how many fuckin' blood samples we take in this place every week? Enough to feed a fuckin' coven of vampires, and someone's gotta analyze them. And that's me."

Kyle kept his mouth shut – if you could get Reilly really going on a story, somewhere between the cursing, the slang, and endless digressions, sometimes it got pretty interesting.

"Anyway." He sighed. "So usually people send us samples in a little styrofoam cooler full of them little blue icepack things. But _no_. The other day I was leaving the infirmary and Prescott said he'd get me this blood sample, so I figured he'd just send it down to us. Instead I don't even get to the corner and he comes up to me and puts this vial in my hand. It was fuckin' _warm_, man. Ain't right."

"But you seen worse." Kyle was reminded of a bumper sticker he had seen once. _Northern fairy tales start with 'once upon a time'; Southern fairy tales start with 'y'all ain't gonna believe this shit'._ Reilly might be determined to get as far away from his roots as possible, but... well, you can take the boy out of Georgia, but you can't take the Georgia out of the boy.

"Yeah, I have, I guess," he said, and the kitten mounted to his shoulder, and once again curled itself into a neat pile, tail tucked under front paws, small dark eyes watching. And, of course, tiny downy wings on its back. The School couldn't even do _kittens_ normally.

"So if your job's a fuckin' soap-opera, why not just go on this, like, business meeting with Jeb? It's not a date if you don't want it to be." Kyle raised his eyebrows and grinned. "Besides. You could probably get _all_ kinds of dirt out of him if you was so inclined."

"Nothing I wanna hear, I bet." His expression wasn't so hard-line freaked out now. Kyle had him.

"I'm just saying. If there's something you wanna know... he might know it."

"Like why my boss almost coulda given me space AIDS the other day," he muttered, petting the kitten (to its satisfaction).

"Potentially. He can't be that fuckin' dumb."

Reilly looked down at Kyle, frowning. "He can be pretty fuckin' oblivious, though, and in the long run that adds up about the same. Especially if you're the one who winds up with space AIDS."

"True." There was no arguing with that, uh. Space AIDS. Not much arguing with any disease, actually... especially not the ones with 'space' in front. Those were the worst. "But I'm trying to tell you, man, don't be a fuckin' wuss. Like what's the worst that could happen?"

Reilly fixed him with a despairing gaze, the likes of which only beagles could equal. "Have you no imagination?" he implored. "This is a mad scientist we're talking about."

_Two mad scientists, fuckface._

"Yeah," Kyle said, smiling at him. "So what could go wrong?"

* * *

"How's it been?" Jeb was avoiding eye contact.

Reilly was playing with his straw, eyes on the bubbles in his Coke. _Dammit Kyle._ Kyle and his persuasive kittens. Fuck 'em both.

_I'm just here on business,_ he reminded himself. _Business. Not awkward if it's business._

"Did you know we have kittens?" he said.

"Kittens? Where?"

_Way to go, Reilly._

It was better than starting off with 'you're really hot, let's fuck'. Or 'I've thought you were awesome since I was thirteen,' since they'd already crossed that awkward bridge.

He summoned up his courage.

"A while ago my friend got reassigned to kitten duty..."

* * *

A note from our sponsor:

There's a reason I haven't worked on this fic in months.

That reason is that the plot and I have not been getting along; the current plot arc is rather dark, and I would much rather write about sunshine and kittens.

This makes it a little difficult to meet my own standards for writing when I'm not writing about said sunshiny kittens, but instead a bunch of depressed mad scientists. So I've been trying out ways to compromise and write chapters, and I think (with the help of kittens) I may have found away.

Anyway. Hopefully you're doing all right, and hopefully you've had the patience to wait on me while I fucked around doing not much. I hope to be able to wrap up this plot arc, if not this fic, by around the two-year anniversary, but that's all tentative.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled program.


	79. Ghost

Chapter Seventy-Nine: Ghost

_Running away never solved anything._

You know this, and in the past have stood to face your troubles face-to-face, like a man. But today that is not an option - you would shatter under the strain.

Your footsteps are hollow on the dock as you run, the heart of the sound stolen by the empty space between wood and restless water. The tang of salt is heavy in the air, the water whipped to waves by some coming storm - but the ferry remains.

Its mistress is waiting for you, arms crossed and eyes bright; she's dressed all in white, but her clothing is dry, unsullied by the salt spray that slaps against you constantly. She stands in a bubble of calmer air.

"You again," she says, blue eyes cold and watchful; she seems to see right through you, through skin and bone down to the soul.

You force your hand to unclench; it has knotted around the silver coins as if not to forget them. The fingers uncurl enough for you to remove the coins and offer them to her with a shaking hand.

Her eyebrows rise. Lightning cracks overhead, filling the humid air with ozone along with the salt.

"I need a ticket," you plead as water drips from your hair into your eyes. "I have to get away from here. Please."

She takes the coins, weighs them in her palm. "What are you running from?"

"I-"

You stop short, unable to finish the sentence.

_You don't even know what you're running from_, says a mocking little voice. _Trying to leave __everything behind and you don't even know __why__._

"I don't know," you say, the words heavy on your tongue. You're sopping wet by now from the waves, and the chill of the water is weighing you down.

"Really? Nothing?" She sounds casual, dismissive, and she laughs. "Or do you mean you have too many to name?"

You nod, unable to muster words for an answer. The cold is all around you now; you feel like a chunk of ice crudely formed in the shape of a man.

That cruel laugh bursts from her lips again. "Have you tried _facing_ your problems, or are you running so you won't have to?"

"I can't," you tell her, hands curling into fists at your sides as if that will help the cold welling up in you. "I can't do it anymore - please, you have to let me on."

"So that's it, then," she says. Flyaway wisps of her hair, still perfectly dry, stand out in a nimbus around her head; you can feel the static electricity, the energy in the air. "You're just a coward. I thought as much."

She tilts her head, gazes pensively at the pair of glittering coins cupped in her palm.

"No - please," you say, but the words feel dry and meaningless almost before you speak them.

She raises her gaze to look at you, and her eyes are subzero cold, chips of ice against the storm. "You don't deserve to."

With a careless gesture, she lets the coins fall into the storm-tossed water, and smiles at you with sweet poison. "So you can stay here. Or go somewhere else, if you like - it doesn't matter to me."

She steps aboard the ferry, bends to loose it from the dock.

"Goodbye."

* * *

Memories haunt him even when he is awake - and though he moves through the waking world, he moves with the stiffness of an automaton, because his mind is somewhere else, somewhere far away from here, running and rerunning through snippets of his own weakness.

* * *

Jeb sits next to your bed, his voice stern and sharp as steel (and perhaps there was more worry than not-quite-anger in his voice then, but your memory is a fogged glass, and you see what it wants you to see). "You have to eat something."

"I can't," you tell him in all honesty. Your head spins with vertigo, your mouth burns with traces of acid, your stomach twists with nausea. The past few days have been particularly bad; you've barely been able to keep down water. You would have less difficulty with ice chips, you know, but in the state you've come to it's a trial simply to totter to the bathroom to refill your glass from the sink.

He sighs. He's brought food with him, in the thought that he'll be able to win you over to his cause, and you can smell it -– chicken broth, usually comforting, now sickening, overpowering. "Doctor, you need to eat." Oh, he's not happy with you at all -– by now he's mostly slipped into the habit of calling you Roland, and _Doctor_ or your last name only comes out when he's displeased with you.

"If I could, I would," you rasp; your throat is dry, but for a while now (hours?) even the thought of water has made your stomach turn and clench itself more than usual, and you'd rather not risk a sip, even just to wet your mouth.

"You're losing weight," he says bluntly, and you flinch, rolling onto your side to face away from him, one elbow pressed awkwardly to your side. Yes, yes, you know you're losing weight –- it's obvious in the way your ribs are now too clearly defined, your pale skin curving inward between them, the way your cheekbones are too sharp under the skin of your gaunt face, the way your muscle seems to disappear day by day, leaving only your skin wrapped tight almost to the point of tearing over your bones. Your body is consuming itself, sacrificing itself to fuel the growth of the child inside you.

"If you don't start eating again I'll be forced to admit you to the infirmary," he says, his voice flat and calm. There's a noise of shifting clothes and a clunk as he leans over in his chair to set the bowl down on your desk, and the reek of it retreats, letting you breathe a little easier, making you feel a little steadier.

"We'll put in a central line and start feeding you by IV." He reaches out to touch you but stops short, hand hovering over the blanket thrown carelessly over your body.

"You won't like it," he murmurs, and lets his hand rest softly on the blanket, not moving, a still weight against your upper arm filtered through layers of cloth to register as the faintest of pressures on your skin. "I've put in central lines before, and they can be quite painful. I'll do it if I have to, but I'd rather not."

You gag involuntarily, fighting down a rise of acid in your throat; inside you're raging at him, so much as you can rage anymore, chained here by your body's failure, caged in a shell of flesh that refuses to obey you. '_You won't like it_'? _Do you think I like __this_? _Do you think I want __this_?

If you could take this food he offers you, you would, and gladly, but you have come to know the body you wear quite well, and you know that if you manage to swallow food in the first place, it will not stay down for long. Better to cut out the middleman, reduce damage to your throat, and not eat at all.

Hunger gnaws at you anyway, combining with nausea to hold you in a ruthless two-handed grip as you lie here like a wounded animal waiting to die. Your body does not know that you cannot feed it; it demands food regardless of your capacity to provide it, and now it is resorting to stealing energy from itself in order to continue.

You cannot continue for long this way - but all you can do is hope that you have the power to outwait this nausea that disables you. You have to; the fate of the entire project rests on your shoulders now, weak as they are.

You swallow, forcing leftover acid back down your throat towards your stomach. Some of it will undoubtedly follow gravity and ooze right back where it came from, but it's the thought that counts.

Your arms are wrapped around your torso as you hold yourself tightly, fingertips pressed against scapulae, ribs curving out of your back and jabbing into your arms as you clutch yourself close. You can feel your ribcage expand and contract as you breathe, your breaths coming small and strangled as you fight through another wave of nausea that threatens to drown you.

You close your eyes - the room seems to spin around you, and the wall pulses faintly to the rhythm of your heart. "I'll be fine."

"You can barely walk," he says, his calm, gentle voice barely restrained from becoming a snarl. His fingers curl, gripping your shoulder tightly for a moment, then relax. The mattress shifts as he sits down next to you, and his fingers move from your shoulder to riffle through your hair, combing through the disorderly strands as if to set them back in place, one by one. "Either you eat or you go to the infirmary."

You're choking again, this time less on bile than on anger - you're perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, and how dare he try to railroad you into anything this way - but there is a part of you (something weak and frail and despicably fragile) that insists you take this easy path. _Take the food_, it says.

He keeps stroking your hair, running his fingers through it again and again; the motion is soothing, even though you'd rather it weren't - you'd trade it for a steady stomach in an instant. "Please," he says, any note of snarl or anger gone from his voice, now only gentle and soft. "Please, it's for your own good."

Ah. You understand now. When he says that, he means - if you die, your project will fail. And he is more interested in your project than in you. He'll be easier to deal with now that you know his motives.

"Fine," you snap. "I'll eat and you'll go away."

He hesitates, fingers caught in your hair. "All right. Deal," he says. He passes a thumb gently over the skin of your forehead. "You'll have to sit up." He extracts his hand fully from your hair, and you're suddenly conscious of the fact that you haven't showered in what feels like an eternity but is probably only a few days, since the act of standing up began to make your head spin with dizziness and your stomach cramp with nausea.

But, like you, he is a doctor, you rationalize to yourself, and he has seen much worse than you in his line of work - but a quiet voice in a secret corner of your skull whispers on, that you are disgusting, that you should have blocked the door against him until you had showered. You are unclean, unworthy. Filthy.

His weight disappears from the mattress, and you open one eye cautiously to the too-bright outside world. The wall still pulses to the beat of your heart, and the room still spins faintly around you, but you cannot respond to either: it would only show your weakness further. And you _are not weak._

You disentangle yourself from your arms, brace the palms of your hands against the mattress, and lever yourself carefully to a sitting position - and yet, despite your efforts to be cautious, you lose your bearings as the room spins around you. You close your eyes again, trying to shut out the sight of the room if nothing else, but it only makes the disorientation worse.

So you open your eyes again, pull yourself backwards to lean against the wall. As much as the room appears to move and twist around you, the wall is solid and cool behind you, reassuring in its immobility. Well, at least _something_ in this room will hold still.

Jeb is standing by your desk, holding the bowl of broth loosely in one hand, a spoon in the fingers of the other. His expression is patient, and there is the hint of a smile on his lips, but all you can think is that he just saw you struggling and nearly failing to _sit up_.

"Are you OK?" he asks, and if you could stand without collapsing you would force him out of the room. Of all the things for him to say, he chooses possibly the most patronizing.

"I'm fine," you reply automatically. As your standardized response, the words spring of their own accord to your tongue when you are asked about your well-being. "Let's get this over with." You extend your arms to take the bowl and spoon from him; your hands tremble, though you will them not to.

He raises one eyebrow. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure," you snarl. You crook your fingers in a beckoning gesture, hoping it will help disguise their quivering. "Give me the bowl, please."

He says nothing, only hands you the spoon. You take it from him, and he extends the bowl to hand it to you as well.

Hunger already clutches you in its claws, steals your strength bit by bit; combined with nausea it causes rushing waves of weakness to run through you from time to time, and one hits you now. You betray no outward sign of what you feel, but in your moment of distraction the spoon slips from your fingers.

"Maybe this isn't such a good idea," Jeb says, taking the bowl in a more secure hold as he bends forward to pick the spoon up from where it has fallen on the blanket.

_You were the one who suggested it_. But it's this or the infirmary; a rock or a hard place. And you'd take this over humiliation in front of Prescott any day - with a little persuasion you can probably keep this incident between the two of you, you reason.

It's not as if Jeb's exactly the hardest person in the world to sweet-talk.

"Just give me the bowl. No spoon," you add, almost spitting the words.

"All right." He lets you take the bowl from him - but doesn't let it go entirely until he's sure you've got a steady hold on it. _You don't trust me, do you?_

You raise the bowl to your lips as if it were an overlarge mug or cup. The smell is overpowering from so close, but you've drunk worse before. This is nothing.

"Prost," you mutter, more to yourself than to him, and take a sip, then force yourself to swallow. The aftertaste lingers in your mouth, clinging to your tongue and teeth: the aftertaste of shame.


	80. Grey Skies in Lendeheim

Chapter Eighty: Grey Skies in Lendeheim

Mist hung over the rooftops and drifted in the streets; streetlights glowed faintly through tangled threads of fog.

It was unseasonably cold outside, even for mid-March, but the cafe was warm - almost uncomfortably so.

"He's not coming back, Kolya."

He pulled himself away from the window and brushed his hands clean on the front of his apron. "Who says he won't?"

"When people disappear like he did, they stay gone. And if he were coming back he would've been here half an hour ago."

"Maybe. I think he'll come back, though."

"I doubt that."

"Why?" Kolya eyed the No Smoking sign by the door, thinking how nice it would be to have a cigarette. A cone of warmth in his hands to keep out the fog.

It wasn't like a little metal sign was going to leach twenty years of smoke out of the walls, anyway. The cafe was going to smell like cigarettes and coffee for a long, long time.

"The last time he came in was a year ago."

"I'm not going to stop waiting for him, Martin."

"What, does he owe you money?"

"Not quite." Kolya shrugged. "I'm keeping something for him, and he said he'd be back for it. I don't think he'd have said that if he didn't mean it."

"Maybe he just wanted to fuck with you."

He said nothing, his eyes on the street outside - still empty. Which wasn't much of a surprise given that it wasn't yet seven o' clock in the morning.

"I don't think so," he said. "A man comes here for coffee every morning at the same time for more than a decade, then leaves something valuable with the owner of the cafe. Maybe you're right and he's just fucking around."

Kolya stared off into the middle distance. The package he'd been left with might well be a joke. As per instructions he hadn't opened it, and didn't know for sure. Wouldn't know, until their long-time customer returned.

"Maybe he isn't," he added under his breath.

If he returned.

Outside the fog curled around the lamp-posts and the corners of the houses, amoeba-like and slow.

Somewhere he heard footsteps ringing on pavement.

* * *

When she was a lab technician, one of a horde of grad students in a bustling lab, she'd thought her superior did no work himself. The students must do all of it for him.

Now she knew better. She might be at a higher pay grade, but being overworked was still a constant of her life.

Marian Janssen hung up the phone and cradled her head in her hands. Besides her supervisory duties - and those were enough for any two people given the effect the economic boom was having on Itexicon - she was now totally in charge of a troublesome little experiment, one with a special importance. The clients waiting on her to deliver a workable end product were Itexicon's own experimental division.

Despite the outside potentials they'd cited to her, she knew that if she got favorable results (or something she could spin as favorable), the end product still wouldn't see the light of scientific day. It would become another of Itexicon's trade secrets - one of the many tricks they used to stay three steps ahead of the competition.

_Toughen up, Marian, or they'll eat you alive._

The phone rang again, and she picked it up. "Marian Janssen."

"Hello?" Petra. Timid as usual. Hard to believe that she was, as typical for an Itexicon employee, at the top of her field. The woman was a mouse. "Can we expect you at the meeting this morning?"

"The meeting is at nine-thirty. I intend to be there."

"It's nine-forty right now."

Marian glanced at the clock on her desk - it seemed Petra was right.

"I was in a call. I'll be there momentarily."

"Thank you, Dr. Janssen," she said, and from the hint of sarcasm in her voice it seemed to Marian that Petra might finally be developing a spine.

* * *

The team was waiting for her in the conference room, and Marian took a little comfort in that. It was the only thing she really enjoyed about her position - the power she held over others.

Now that she'd arrived, everyone working on the project was present and accounted for - with one addition.

Since ter Borcht's failure to return to Germany, Patrick Müller had taken his place on the team. Müller was a capable scientist, no doubt about it - he had published prolifically on stabilizing the development of lab-grown organs, making him a valuable asset to the team.

But as far as recombinant genetics went, he was nowhere near being a match for ter Borcht. No one really was, except perhaps Doctor Batchelder, and even that was doubtful.

Luckily the matter was moot. With all ter Borcht's materials and meticulous notes here, they could make do without him.

For the time being. No telling about the future.

Petra was the first to speak after Marian sat down.

"Any news for the rest of us, Dr. Janssen?"

She hesitated.

_We want to ask you to be on a committee, Doctor. It's about the future of the world. You're more than qualified._

Damien was sleepily regarding a mug of coffee.

_You're intelligent. No doubt you've noticed the trends in the world lately. Towards self-destruction. Entropy._

Dimitri was cleaning his nails with Ivan's knife.

Ivan was looking at her, patient as winter.

_We have a solution, Doctor._

Jianming looked ragged and jet-lagged, but his clothes were in perfect order.

_When you have a malignant tumor, you cut it out. When there is an abscess, you drain it. When a tooth is rotten, you pull it._

Petra was put-together, her hair in a bun the only part of her not carefully arranged, tendrils of hair escaping around the edges.

_We're killing ourselves, Doctor. World population is unsustainably high. We can buy ourselves time._

Patrick looked sorrowful, as if he knew what Marian wasn't saying.

_We want you to help us._

"Dr. ter Borcht is recovering quite well," she said.

"Good," someone said.

_The things I do._

* * *

Note: This chapter was assembled from a draft I found in an old notebook of mine. I have no idea what I originally planned for it, but hell, that's what writing is for. Forward ho.

A lot of things have changed since I started this fic. I've celebrated three birthdays. I graduated high school. I went on medication. I went to college.

What I'm saying here is thank you for two and a half years of great fun.

Please be patient with me - no matter how long it takes to find the words, I'll finish this one. However long it takes.

I'll see you there.


	81. cold heart

It does not live in words, this dark and subtle creature within you. It has no sympathy for the brief flashes of truth that penetrate your defenses: it seeks them out and then destroys them, suffocates the life from them as it does from you. It is protecting you, in the only way it knows.

Because the outside world is cruel, every part of it a veiled threat to your fractured soul. So you made a monster to guard you, to turn away the pain before it could strike, and in so doing you took the cage you sought to escape and bound it tigher to your flesh. Made a monster of many faces, to ward off the terrors all around.

Sometimes it comes gowned in a personal red, a coiling rage tight in your stomach, and paces, promising violence, in your heart. Sometimes it is blue, a cool sorrow distant as the stars.

Sometimes it has no color at all.

And sometimes it is you.

* * *

On the better days (because there are bad days and not-so-bad, never the good you faintly remember), your head is empty and quiet. The breeze passing over the sand blows right through you, finds no substance of thoughts to slow it.

You let the memories fall through your hands, unable to capture them: the high flights of a mind with unclipped wings, the sweet song of a heart unpierced by sorrows. The joy of your work.

For every gift there is a price exacted.

You do not remember what you gave for those good times.

* * *

On the bad days you are swallowed up in fog, and cannot escape its reach. You are haunted by what you have not, and forget what you have.

You find a sort of peace in these days, your mind empty of thought and sluggish to move. It is not the words from the dark that tear at you, but the cool rush of colorless sorrow, the faint awareness of something you have lost without the knowledge of what it was.

* * *

There is a tiny core of warmth in your heart on the days when the mist lifts a little, a memory of love and the beauty of the world that now seems so indifferent to your existence.

It's this you hold onto, when you are aware enough to seek it: this tiny flame, this little fragment, of somebody you once were.

(Were you ever that man?)

* * *

Exhaustion does not let you go, even though you try to conserve your energy. It is always there, coiling close around you, a veil between you and the world, casting a shadow, slowing you down.

But you can't rest, not as much as you need to. Something keeps you awake, words and images rushing through your head, keeping you from settling to sleep.

(You watch her sleeping, small chest rising and falling, eyelids flickering, and wonder _what do you dream of?_ and _will you know this curse too when you are grown?_ There is no answer, of course. For you there are never answers. Can never be answers.)

You have a lot of time to think, to brood, sometimes to feel the odd sensation of your mind circling and circling, never finding a place to stop or focus.

Sometimes you turn to the notes you smuggled out of Germany, searching for something you can never quite remember - some key, some clue, that you have forgotten. That, if you recover it, will be the answer to some of the questions you hold, quiescent, in the cave of bones and secrets you call a mind.

What did you leave behind you?

* * *

This creature you harbor in your heart has changed you.

You wake from sleep and your face is not the same, the contours softer, the skin too smooth beneath your fingertips. Your nails, unevenly clipped, dig into the flesh as if in sleep you sought to scrape away the new construction and uncover, if not what used to be there, then at least the bone beneath.

And when you shake away the shreds of dreams, there is a faint premonition that remains. A warning that you cannot remember.

Or, perhaps, a promise, passed from the man you were to whatever you have become.

(But what could he have wanted from you?)


End file.
